We owe something to the outlook we inherit: that is, to think from it toward our own world. We must remember what we saw ourselves doing early on and how that still hides today in the way we live. We are chancing purposefulness, molding out of living clay opportunity that arises up and around the focal point of what we do. And we always take along the small defects in the work, the idiosyncratic marks that bring singularity; we pass these on just like the ones we inherited.
In the open night we stand around the center and touch the former layers that were also once a present moment reaching back down–present passing presents past–and back up again. On the roof of our togetherness old dead thinkers shout to each one of us, “Hey you… up here! You do not reflect very much… go back inside and climb up here with us; this is a group of companions for the likes of you. You do not have to linger beside these others. Sure, you will miss them but visit when you wish, do what you must to get by. We are memories incarnate in your reflection. Go within yourself and turn up here to us.”
At such moments, Lady Liberty usually stumbles upon our gathering. She gives a few love to get past being encapsulated in the group. Others she lets run out of the crowd but not into anything better. Finally, she throws a party for me and the thinkers on the roof, for she loves being a shining host, a beacon to hospitality.
“Now listen,” she whispers, “You go and look for kinship with those who are willing to turn within as well. Or it will not be long before your life is wasted. Life is amazing and lately the rush of the crowd has made you forget.”
In a rain of poker chips, she leaves a fortune cookie bowl on the great ceramic axis we were fondling. She screams for attention: “Jazz is how you blow your mind not how you play a note!!!” But everyone grabbs for the bowl. Their knees go down as they read their fortunes and receive the lucky numbers for the liberation lottery. They mutter, entranced, “This is something tangible and quantifiable… you can really hold this in your hand.”
I saw at that moment: only sensation, merely reactivity.
So I jump back beyond the moment and find intermittently between where I was going and where I had been that intuition throws me onto empty paper; nevertheless, I stand up from there and try to laugh here at how futures wander onto pasts.
The roots of my childhood, experienced and faded, always present passing under what is happening, even moments of clarity.