IT SEEMS TO ME THAT MANY, A GREAT MANY SENSED THEIRBUT I DON’T WANT TO USE THE WORD INCOMPLETENESS. A certain discontinuity in themselves, an opening, a sense that somehow between their skeletons and the flesh there was work to be done, a sense of something insufficiently-come-into-beingnot merely the personality, but something else. I think they felt this from the very beginning.
And I suppose the old sages filled this space with breath, which carried God, I guess, to every cell of the bodycommanded God back into the flesh: a kind of mystic remarriage after the necessary divorce of birth.
When artists make, it seems to me it’s a cousin of the breathwork of the Yogis and the Sufis and the Kabbalists, even when any mysticism is disavowed. Making springs, at least mine does, from a profound experience of the incompleteness of what has been given, of the need to reconcile, to somehow balance the books between what merely is and what your ten or is it twelve bodies and all of your experience know also and often more importantly to be.
It seems to me this spacepoeisis, or whateveris now filled and constantly filling with technology, which is a sloppy term, but this is just a predawn speculation and I have six clients to astrologize for todayso let it stand for the moment. The openness, the incompleteness, the dissynchrony we feelwhich it seems to me is both divine in nature and creative in what it demandscan be everywhere and in every wise now filled and reconciled by entities designed to entertain, to surveil, and to profit from this unnamed and perhaps unnameable openness, which is also a curiosity, which is also a longing, which is also the fact that we breathe.
Nobody who comes to this planet in a human body can escape the task of becoming human. That is the goal. We are here to become human. Becoming human is a task. Birth alone does not confer this gift. Birth is the beginning of the possibility of this gift being recognized, received, put into action.
I’m tired of hearing speculations about our grim cybernetic future. It is here. Feeding the Aquarian structure, the micro veins of our minutest thoughtforms with the worst of ourselves and the wildest among our delusions, the reflections of which, upon the merely real and uponto use an antiquated termmeatspace, is what we’re living out now, won’t excuse us from the human task. There is no avoiding the task. I don’t care if you were implanted in your mother’s womb by a super race from Sirius B, as I recently heard a squat man with a supposedly evidentiary dent in his head declare, or if you trace your origins to enslaved kings or Sumerian goddesses or if, like me, yours are the epigenetics of refugees, again and again genocided.
When I feel most Jewish I find myself remembering the idea of God existing, I remember this idea like it’s any other idea, except I always find myself bringing forgiveness to it. I forgive the demiurge, YWVH or whatever his name is, the possibility of his existence and the many dismaying aspects of himself he reproduced in us. This capacity to forgive the creator and even the idea of a creator sprang up spontaneously, shortly after I’d finished my first book. I forget the capacity periodically, just like I forget all the time even the idea of a creator. But sometimes I think this forgiveness in me could be a talent. Sometimes I think it could even be the beginnings of a theology.
Yesterday the clouds were like horsehair, and blocks of naked trees made a weird merkin on the Dallas sand. Metaphor comes easy when you’re in the air, and you permit it to yourself with the same kindness that lets you let movies make you cry. I watched the one about the glamorous gossip columnist and her brilliant alcoholic father, the transparent castle he never built her, the glass walls and ceilings through which she never did get to see the stars. She went to Barnard and so did I; she didn’t have the money to go there and neither did I; I haven’t become a glamorous gossip columnist; my father does however look at the stars. He looks at them through a telescope. I imagine he still does this, but I don’t know him anymore. In the Mariah Carey sense.
As many times as I’ve flown over the city at night, like a great singed body covered in smoking embers, like a catastrophe that always seems to have just happened, I never get totally used to it. I almost felt used to it at night. Then slept fitfully, braided among four tatters of dreamsin one a newscaster was using my coinagethe verb to astrologizewithout, of course, crediting me.
I loved the hair of the person above. I had been looking at it a long time before I noticed their nails, their manly sideburns, the fat diamond or cubic zirconia engagement ring they were wearing. I don’t think I’ve seen a French twist on anybody but Catherine Deneuve in forever, Catherine Deneuve whose sex life American women are not trying to take away, but that and everything else must remain for now another story.