Actively looking for something I’ve not seen before (but everything I see is the echo of my own looking). Maybe the outward skin of objects is our idea of them, is thought — the furthest extension of a thing, of its atoms’ charge, occurs when we notice and think of it — and this is why when, beholding them, we fail to look “outward.” (“And we spectators,” Rilke wrote, “always everywhere, turned toward the world of objects, never outward.”) Why was the outward world not the world of objects was wondered. A lasso shaped twig. A woman police officer. A bearded delivery man trying to make a turn.
Stepping on grass to left of sidewalk, littered with small cherry blossom petals. (A crack: what had Rilke said was cracked like a teacup?) Getting “small in myself.” — This meant the same thing as the Moby Dick passage (which passage?) I was deep within my own blubber (blubber?) I was far from being affected by even what was right beside me? (Sounds serious but you’re not expressing it well.) (Heart of the whale was far from the exterior of the whale.)
Oh. Now I’m in the parking lot having passed the thick grass and tree petals and now there is the crunch of the parking lot, which was heavily sanded over this winter. (A non littoral feeling though?) I’m trying to “center myself” you could say but I find something already in the center, which I cannot dislodge, so as to put myself my life in the center and it’s like who are you and what is that (is it me?) already there, and so, uncentered still, I once again float away, “do what I’m doing.”
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 