But today I feel strange. Last night it rained and stormed here, as I rode home on my bicycle after midnight. I had danced so much I couldn't walk afterwards, and felt as though we had brought on the rain.
September
September took me by surprise,
light, rain, change,
my pain.
A cause substantial,
a reason just,
a minimal commitment,
betrayed trust.
The battle fought
between the twins of thought,
against the sure of heart.
Where was the fountain
that gave rise to this flow,
seep, mow, sow, reap?
I cook and weep.
September caught me off guard,
lonely, I can’t tell you so,
hurting, wanting you to know.
I do not act.
The energy recedes
back into the earth,
the harvest progresses.
Maybe it's the hurricane. I looked at pictures of Vermont today for the first time, and though I am so far away, I feel like it somehow affected me, as though I were caught in that maelstrom in the sky, or as though some of my inner roads need rebuilding, small communities are isolated.
I'm thinking about my origins, which makes me think of a quote in my dissertation, by Walter Benjamin, from his The Origin of German Tragic Drama, on the concept of origin :
Origin [Ursprung], although an entirely historical category, has, nevertheless, nothing to do with genesis [Entstehung]. The term origin is not intended to describe the process by which the existent came into being, but rather to describe that which emerges from the process of becoming and disappearance. Origin is an eddy in the stream of becoming, and in its current it swallows the material involved in the process of genesis. (p. 45)
On the way to becoming, thus we are made, within this spiral. Where there is destruction, there is also the forging of the new, creeks and rivers swelling and rolling in their beds, finding a novel way to lie upon the earth.
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