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Re: Re: Rilke and Hurston
One thing about questions and answers is that even when you've come to an
answer, when you think you've pinned everything down and trimmed all the
edges, it doesn't stop the question and the answer _both_ from mutating and
writhing under your hands like an impatient, mythic snake. Or from burning
you like a white-hot bar of iron. And there's no guarantee that even if you
can hold on, you'll get Tam Lin in the end.
I have no answers. And I am painfully, desperately aware that there are some
areas of my life for which I cannot frame questions. I want to scream to the
sky and I can't-- I don't know what to pray for. It's a feeling of knowing
somehow I could move forward, make a dent in the mountain, if only I knew
where to start. If only I knew where this whole tangled skein starts, I could
untangle it. It's not a Gordian Knot I can sever-- I have to pick through it
meticulously and follow where it leads.
Of course, there's the never-ending, Murphian constant that once I think I've
gotten somewhere, something else comes along and makes me realise I haven't
really gotten anywhere at all yet. Not that I'm going to give up, but
sometimes I wonder just how long the road is. I think I'm a little young yet
to be this tired.
And that's as good a cue as any to go to bed. Goodnight.