A year makes quite the difference. Peripheral items become surprisingly possible (like uni teaching or nearly grasping Foucault [or his aims]) while expectations find themselves buried under a towering stack of other expectations (for example, progressing in Arabic or publishing). The past is a sea — swelling and rolling away. What was permanently distinct vanishes into the waves — one horizon is where I have been, the other where I shall be.
With this movement — for I quite believe the past is as much in motion as the present or future, or else we would n’t learn new things about the past (and forget more) — centering a meaning and pinning it down is not impossible, but requires effort. I must at least intend clarity or I shall never pluck these Promethean sand-kernels from that which engulfs, tosses, and leads shore-ward. Even as a goal is sought, this end being pursued is transforming.
And so the disappointments of non-writing, non-thinking, and non-reading mingle together with the best nothings. If I wish to change I must choose well which are to be rightly discarded; and this I have not trained myself for. Choosing her is preparing to reject all else — reorienting the orbits and then preparing for collisions.
These frustrations swirl about the good sand — overpowering the flavor of the waves often. True, this corpus is not so easily tossed about — for its orbit is drawn more tightly. Much debris is redirected elsewhere and the result better suits the traveler who would follow a similar path. Tracking another in the ocean is not a straight-forward task, but parallels emerge — one splash will not catch all things.
Answering each ripple, or even each wave, would be an unending task — and does any answer the ocean? Tiamat can fling aside such arrows — for they merely pierce the skin. As fingers find their skill — so that they may filter all but the single sand-grain — so I would call to share my joy with others. But who can understand what I have found but a fellow diver? And what tongue can steal the meaning from these finger-tips…but surely some sign can be offered.
How unfortunate that time must then draw all meaning back to the depths — and that we surface-dwellers would think a wave must be answered by a ripple. Such are not the Atlantean laws — the world beneath the waves beckons (and shall be answered by no bird).