Llegar a ser árbol

El error parte de encontrar belleza en el otro y confundirlo con tu propio reflejo.

The people are ultimately the people, and we don't speak the same language in general anyhow... be they strangers from another land or your next door nieghboors because those people, all people, are still crowds with whom little identification is possible, if not certain individuals, if not at certain moments, if not under a code that I still can't decipher, which is the freest and surest way to communication, peace, and understanding.

You gotta be crazy! Because that's just losing the denial.

But everyone is just as crazy as you, but in their individual, and in ther moments, so that even if we all really work the same way it's all a jumble anyway because life is a thing we each take in fully on our own... and I write this cynnically and not in a fervor because words know they're always saying the same things but they like being and they like coming and they like saying... words are here to stay, if only, here as memories of memories (echoes! echoes!) of brief lapses of understanding and that bridge we formed between our selves and ourselves, these bridges that save you from the momentum and collapse of too much consciousness...

El segundo error parte de creer que no hay belleza.

Reconozco que el otro no es mi espejo, justamente es la salvación del espejo. En la naturaleza hay belleza.

Recuerdo un poema de Hart Crane. Increíble fusión de lo imaginario con la naturaleza. The Garden Abstract.

The apple on its bough is her desire,—
Shining suspension, mimic of the sun.
The bough has caught her breath up, and her voice,
Dumbly articulate in the slant and rise
Of branch on branch above her, blurs her eyes.

She is prisoner of the tree and its green fingers.
And so she comes to dream herself the tree,
The wind possessing her, weaving her young veins,
Holding her to the sky and its quick blue,
Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight.
She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope
Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet.

Does nature sleep? What gardens can sprout inside ourselves? Nature is like music... wisdom is rythm. Doesn't music say? Yes, and words sound.

Entiendo poco de lo que he escrito, de lo que he leído, y cómo se relaciona. Mala señal, lo sé. Sólo sé que si entre todos los dormir y despertares, separara entre realidad y sueño, ésta sería la imagen de mi Sueño, la dirección de mis pulsiones:

Planto una imagen del árbol en la mente (la semilla), y claro que va a crecer. Si llegara a ser árbol... tendría Nombre porque tendría raíces. Tendría tronco para unir mis ramitas, para que a todas les puedan salir hojas. Quién sabe, tal vez flores y frutas también. Por lo pronto, soy sólo ramas sueltas. Con hongos. Los hongos no son yo, sin embargo están ahí.

Si llegara a ser árbol... no necesitaría más palabras. Sería vida.