The world - if you'll humor me - is a polished hardwood dining room floor. We are children, sliding sock-clad in and out of sunbeams. Sometimes, there are, in the course of aging, nails that get shaken up, or were always there, butting their small rusted heads into the path of pure pleasure.
Choice is my current hang-up. Everytime I try to slide through my poetic thought process, I get snagged, and the heel of my poem is torn gaping wide.
What makes a man choose something? "Preference" is the current favorite word - not of me, mind you, I hate the idea of choosing according to whatever I will. Unless our wills are somehow perfect in their creative power before a tainting element is added...
It doesn't seem determined, but then it doesn't seem like I can make my own choices - being pushed about by our whim, which is what causes a man to move outside of careful choice - the tendential, emotional following of trained desire, is essentially determinism in my mind. If we are led by whim we are not led by choice. Question: can choosing by intuition be real free-choice?
It is obvious to me that we choose - but, but, I don't see what element we add to the chain of conditioning events that makes the movement our own...
California, mid-june, on a sunny afternoon
Chopin's bright rain of lighthearted notes
falling softly in the other room:
mists & rainbows shining back into the dark caves
of the gloom of my word-heavy mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment