The first word was uttered. An articulated sound, man found that he was not alone. Something was being expressed, annunciated, defined, and so the world was born. Man thought about what it could mean, what was it about him and his relationship to the world. He still hasn’t realized that the world is, that he is, because he is with an other. With others. He is still living within the confines of his ego. But man is because he is not alone. It all began when man heard a word. Today this word is language. Through sharing language, man has become.
Fragment I
Home, belonging, carved out of earth.
Autumn leaves fall onto the paved garden
A wash of red and brown lets the sky in,
A new canopy for the winter months,
Branches, still, ready to shoulder the snow.
Branches stark and aging in the blue sky,
As clouds mimic the snow-melt in autumn,
Still, as thoughts drift, borne of another place,
A place less temperate, another home,
A home remembered, all that time ago.
Ploughing through the oceans, discovering
New lands, stories echoing reaching shore
Of places undrawn on delicate maps;
Conquered seas awash with fond memories
And suitcases full of memories seeds.
A garden, eating lunch by art,
Sculpted in a studio, at night,
After dinner, by candlelight,
And by the sun the metal forms
Ideas about structure
And the geometry of film
Set in part by the sparrow
Foraging for scraps
Left behind by the touch of time;
By the bay blooms bright
And awaken sleeping gracefully art.
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