I read today that Hemingway said writing is not difficult; you just have to sit down at the typewriter and bleed.
Like the Third Patriarch of Zen said of the « perfect » way: It, too, is not difficult; it just dislikes picking and choosing.
Looking around all day and into night, imperfection abounds, limitless: Sunlight fades, the Métro stalls, I forget what I wanted to say.
And right there in the heart of every imperfect moment, perfect reality bleeds.
Reality bleeds…YES! What a powerful statement! Just let the skin-shell open and allow life and blood to mix together! WOW! Better than coffee!!!
Thick,
abundantly,
shifting shapes from one container to another,
somebody watches,
another colors it,
a few see it running down,
fulfilling every moment.
a bird sings,
as the sun set over the horizon,
everybody running blind,
thick,
abundantly,
reality bleeds.
Coming home after a busy day.
Discution between tree people about a work of art.
I didn’t say anything – just listened
They didn’t look/see at all
categorical – categorical – categorical –
seeing must be terrifying –
I just sit behind my computer and bleed
right here in the heart of this imperfect moment, this moment is just imperfect – as real as it gets
My life is the most perfect example of the perfect reality. Everything coming and going. I ask for the cafe and cake and they arrive. Drink and eat and they are gone. And yet they are still here. Just different. A non stopping movement. Life just flowing. My life.