September 11, 2010 God of Moving Parts
You triumph this one moment, this tiny piece of eternity, or what a Zen Buddhist would call Eternity.
You call it a syncopation of stars, an elephant on the train tracks of your brain.
You feel thick, like you are encased in layers of cardboard or fleece—you’ve accepted that the present moment also contains the past and future, like those wooden Russian dolls that fit inside each other, so you’re in all kinds of tenses, but you feel… well… cemented. Like a statue. Like a pillar, like cinderblock.
But is this moment of enlightenment (as some may call it) some misfiring in your very human, very animal brain? And so what if it is? Would that fact, that crude, biological fact, de-value what feels like a cosmological awakening? Because, the thing here is that the instant you begin to feel immortal, the second all of your boundaries begin to blur and your awareness fills the animate and inanimate objects surrounding you and you begin to breathe and beat with something you couldn’t describe using the letters on this keyboard, your temporal body beckons you back with an itch from a mosquito bite, and suddenly you feel profoundly small and breakable and fleshy.
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