You always make me want to write poems. This won’t be a poem, of course, but as I told you, I generally gave up trying to keep it from being a poem when I write. Maybe if I emphasize that it’s not one, it will help calm my fear that whenever I write anything that tries, the result is a very bad poem at best.
Words always come from outside, originally. I was before I had words, but the High Thoughts tell me that I didn’t think before I had words. (Not that there’s anything automatically wrong with not thinking.) I play here (at this cybersite) with (among other things) the ways in which there might not really be such a thing as “I” or “Me” before there are words. And the worst part is that there might not “really” be such things at all. Those cages might be empty, you seemed to suggest. But if the words come from outside, then “I” and “Me” must not be inside as opposed to outside. Or maybe they are in here, but not of here. “You” was (that’s grammatically correct, because I don’t mean just you) before either “I” or “Me.” The High Thoughts tell me this too, but you remind me of it so I hear in a way that’s much deeper than thinking about hearing.
And what really got me this time was the world that you see, the one that’s not broken. Another poet who has spoken to both of us sang that “everything is broken,” but you won’t accept that, even from Zimmy. Your poems grumble about how everything that we so often take to be broken is also so beautiful, so wondrous. We look for happy endings, but you have a way of gently urging us to notice happy middles. (Happynings?)
You wrote to J. of “how to love each other” as something teachable, though it is something even God isn’t sure about. And if it can be taught, it is “only very slowly.” Today as I reflect on how your words come to me, I want you to be one of my slow tutors, and my wish for you is that your own supply of them is always bountiful.
There you go. At least I didn’t arrange it on a page as if it were a poem.