Reading Crime and Punishment in the dark and wet rural Chinese winter and Joshua got sick with a fever on the border town. Wanting to kill the nihilist prick, “Rodya,” I explored the streets alone and brought back a paper bowl of noodles. The inherent problem with writing is that it delineates thought and action. Can we write and free ourselves from further categorization, further erring by playing tricks that depend on the duality illusion? Should we remain in these morasses of philosophy, we will only carve deeper the lines we have drawn. Ironic loopholes can save us from this world of imaginary fences and blocks. Now the only way to erase or deëmboss the lines is to write to show that thought and action are, if not one, then lovers who share the world they make.
Only drawing fragments of lines, to ruin a good thing. But no, to ruin no thing. It is all we can do. Free me from these lines, these lines that I have forgotten how to navigate.
But love, I need you to design what I create for you. You have not forgotten to tell truth, but how to make a bowl of spilled soy sauce.
Save me so that I won’t pollute with malicious talk. I can be myself; I can be the voice of my Lord. Allow us to know the beauty of the gorges in this industrial mud. Muddying the mind with fears that the heart is the evil root and the brain, the lord. Voices echo in this warehouse-room and the television blares. Cigarette smoke and cold light flood the chambers of the world and I ask in contemptuous pity why I am so susceptible to pollution. The gorge opens and revelations to the end of time pour forth. I can allow the waterfalls to wash me forever and this shall be progress. Prayers are not answered as a book is closed, but uncovered, exposed. In this granular light I lie naked and ashamed, susceptible to scorn and everything and miracles. This is life with God.
© 2011, Amaya Engleking