Thursday, January 26
FIXED SHADOW, MOVING WATER One friend tells me everything's political, another says nothing is, we just make it political. By "we," he means human beings, I assume— what's political to a fox curled in sleep, or a pond, or a sycamore in winter with no leaves left to stop the snow falling through it? I have loved you for less time than I have loved some others, but none more deeply than you; no one more absolutely. Which, as if inevitably, amounts to a hierarchy of sorts, doesn't it? Value, then the power that comes with it—soon enough, the distribution of power, who gets to do the distributing . . . But if we make of tenderness a countervailing force, the two of us— If we can make, from tenderness, a revolution— (Carl Phillips)