Member-only story
The Universe as Narcissus
Considering the Incomprehensible in a Sink Full of Dirty Dishes
I’m trying to make sense of every little thing. Every book on the shelf, every spoon in the drawer, and every must-do on my to-do list. I’ve been using new software at work to sort through the information I share with students, and for the tasks I need to do. I’ve done the same thing with my writing projects.
It’s (probably deceptively) satisfying to get everything organized this way. Having an overview only gives me an illusion of control, I suppose. But it does stop my muppet mind from fretting. I can tease apart every concern and spread it over the computer screen as separate entities. With a space between each. Nothing in its own shape seems worth fretting over. Nothing in-and-of-itself seems vital.
What I’m still searching for is a way to do this kind of thing with all of the thoughts in my head. I want to — lovingly — sedate every little moth-like idea and pin it to a kind of bulletin board.
I suppose in some ways that is exactly what it is to write in the mornings.
This dawning space: where the contents of my time
spreads thinly, shallow as the sea
flowing over the sand — where
every gasp for breath becomes visible —
this moment of pause before
the day’s rush and the slower ebb
into the dark and the deep
chaos of dreams.
