Glass Ceiling

Fusion faster than focusing frees the brain from rain. To dance faster than light will life your dreams to outer worlds where they can be seen by other eyes than yours. The last spell of draining can turn the moistened, dew-filled yard back into a wonderland of touch, without all the stuff that gets piled on land by our working, dirty hands and as it is done by nature-apart-from-us and has been since the beginning, whenever that was. Whenever that is. It is now, right? The beginnings and endings of thought? The pace of it, before time begins to slow or speed, before your tongue tries to match it and your hands and feet try to match your tongue? It is all of a piece. No difference at all, no lag of any kind. Just furniture in the spaceship, couches covered in mold but easy to clean if you can see the outside, the earth-world, the shapes we know and trust. The figures of our imagining. They help, they taunt, they laugh and bleed like us. They throw parties on the rings of Saturn and invite the whole neighborhood in, as the best parties do. I want to go. I am there now, even before I want to go. (How does *that* work? I don’t know, but it does.) How many apples can trip up a banana before the banana has time to reach up into the tree and grab the daily newspaper from out of the upstairs window where it has only recently been situated because of focusing on the sky and not on the land? There used to be a door to the cellar; now there is no cellar, so no door, no need for one. We used to have a back room; not anymore. Huge chunks of the house are missing. Or are they just invisible? Can something you can’t see still provide shelter? A glass ceiling, perhaps? A small, silver rope the thickness of a fishing-line waaaaaaay up in the trees, above where you could possibly see it?

The world is held together by these things. We see them sometimes. Mostly we don’t. And the ones we see are different than we think them to be. Count on that. Everything you think you know will be transcended next week if you just keep with it, even the knowledge that everything you know will be transcended next week if you just keep with it. How does that make you feel? How does that affect your sense of smell and touch and breathing-from-the-heart? What you see can’t hold you up like what you can’t. This goes against all logic, but it’s true. On the scale of importance, the material world, so-called, is of minor significance except to the degree we feel implicated by it.

Meanwhile, a lunch with friends is delightful, whatever the weather and wherever the land and however many houses are reaching the sun and cleaning their rooms, fluffing their pillows, using all the furniture, and still finding time to write the names of all their inhabitants on the walls in the very styles in which those people would do it, themselves, if they could see beyond the walls. If we could see beyond the walls. Because words are stronger than the hands that write them, and they may bring down all manner of dwellings.