poppies

a picture…

poppies1

and my favorite quote (so far) from notes from the tilt-a-whirl:

infinite regress isn’t possible.  the world cannot be resting on the back of a purple turtle on the back of a purple turtle on the back of a purple turtle on the back of a purple turtle on the back purple turtle…  it doesn’t even help if you work in anti-turtles.

here is the moment of my amaze.  the olive that i hold in my hand along with its friendly minced pimento, this olive that i now taste and eat, that former olive was, on some level, made out of something that was…not made from anything.

there is another word for not anything.  the word is nothing.  at some point, that is the answer to the question.  what is it made of?  what is it made of?

nothing.  and yet…it is.

words.  magic words.  words spoken by the infinite, words so potent, spoken by one so potent that they have weight and mass and flavor.  they are real.  they have taken on flesh and dwelt among us.  they are us.  in the christian story, the material world came into existence at the point of speech, and that speech was ex nihilo, from nothing.  god did not look around for some cosmic goo to sculpt, or another god to dice and recycle.  he sang a song, composed a poem, began a novel so enormous that even the russians are dwarfed by its heaped up pages.

you are spoken.  i am spoken.  we stand on a spoken stage.  the spinning kind.  the round kind.  the moist kind.  the kind of stage with beetles and laughter and babies and dirt and snow and fresh-cut cedar.

yes, by all means, run out and buy it.

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