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Janet Waring

Janet Waring

 

Janet Waring

 

Janet Waring

 

Janet Waring

 

Janet Waring

 

OMPHALOS

Centre, season, cell. Some days all a person does is string the noise into a circuiting, encompassing a commons, or a cage. It isn’t actual, the fact of thought a field or page of snow enfolded in the creases of the desert, in the cold. Some days fracture in the aftermath. Like years sometimes, like months of numb subtraction, a language learned by route to link occurrences, the aberrant connections, causes. We find it difficult. Our thinking webs a difference around us, errors in and answers. It isn’t accurate. The words, and thus the world, turn back. The field evaporates, a matter of erasure, departure or return. What is it then in each of us we’ve kept apart to say is singular, assured of origin, a self supposedly, a nationality, a song? Stranger, are you near me? Despite discrepancy, no sun, nor salt, nor sky can cease enough to render what’s interior. Is it wrong to make this up, to speak the world of things without a means to sing that one is listening? Still, it isn’t audible until it trembles, tenors through and breaks us, moves us. A sound pronounced in all directions, tethered to a death-thought, scattering. The season loosens everything and shakes. Summer, then surrender, a wish for colour, winter. I can’t remember. Days that never happened, their shape and resonance, the refuse of our variance. Difference is built. We find it difficult. The weight of what has left escapes its plain containment and exists. Blue, the blue dark opening, spilling over everything. Our edges painted, wisped in light, far particle. It isn’t practical, it’s stated. Some days vanish in the overlap. The ground itself grows restless, iridescent, bent. For what it’s worth, for what. Days of rain, of remedy. Talk and circumstance. I had thought for once to simply say it was enough, that it, whatever is, would be there. Always, it would be there, an exit opening to others, an entrance opening. Call it cave or covenant, shore or shorelessness. Together we have gathered, terrored inward at the water of our end, dark river. Such rushing there, such rising. Into emptiness, rising. Into happiness, as some have said, in dark again, companion. And so it is that one begins to find she echoes outward, always outward. Into openness, a promise. Joy and empathy. The eventual erosions. Love. The receding back, the fall. The falling back. To where, to when, to who. It’s getting difficult. Again the sky continues its retraction and resists. The ground and what comes after. Matter into mourning. Into shade and ache. Into acre. This is the sound of the faith a person makes of things. And from them, a form of drift, a weathering, despair. Even then, then what. For once I once believed the point around which turned the world that wasn’t there, made true the actual erupting inward of the visual. It made an avenue of sense. Snow fell. It made an avenue of nonsense. Then and only then did I explain myself to no one in particular, performing less than perfectly the aperture of space within my name, its strange arrangement, a monument. There, for a moment, despite the times I lived within the price and privilege of, despite material, its raw pronouncements ever present, the pattern of the real and more than real, I swear I saw a self precisely mapped upon a plane, vast transparencies, a pure capacity for wonder and for grief. Then, surpassing rhetoric, the thought the plane surrounded, drowned to nothing and became.

Janet Waring

 

Janet Waring

Janet Waring