Occasionally, in some un-searched corner of my day, as life swirls about me repeating its sardonic maxim that I am not in control—mocking me, pinching and poking, and then, like a playful father suddenly addressed by a business associate, straightening up with impenetrable features and a stone-like jaw—yes, as life spins about me like a myriad of streaming faces circling a dizzy carousel, and I am running and flailing about in joy or despair (it doesn’t matter which—only the movement brings the paralyzing realization)—occasionally, my chaotic, desperate spasms coincide with life’s undulating waves of faceless motion…and I catch a still-framed glimpse of the force that is so absentmindedly tossing me about. An he, in shock, in indignation that such a singularly muddled creature as myself—a creature born into emptiness and doomed to either a bitter, dark honesty (graying with age to a nasty pessimism) or a self-deceit so strong it must continually change faces to avoid falling apart—he, almost embarrassed that such a naked, tear-streaked child should happen upon him as he tinkered with the next trap to hurl at my feet, his face involuntarily contorts in unveiled conceit and he slaps the spinning globe into an even more fearful whirl, casting me once again into the pressing darkness of my centripetal void….
And eventually I forget the time-tucked pause. But sometime later, when the winds have whistled countless tunes to my dancing toes, when my dialogues with eternal days and hours have slowly and profoundly twisted and kissed my deepest being into new shapes and rhythms, after my path has diverged at such subtle points of sin and redemption from its previous direction—in short, when I have so consistently lived in the moment so as to be completely transformed in my power of forgetting—then, unexpectedly, the textures once again catch, the revolutions of an overpowering Life and my tiny, virginal one coincide and entwine for a silent eternity. And when again life has outsmarted me, and world which encompasses my narrow fantasies has proven too proud for me to discover to any extent but that which both teases in its gasping brevity yet quenches some unknown area of my soul—when this happens, it seems undeniable that there is a progression slowly forming, that these seductive and elusive slaps of reality are forming some mysterious and inimitable story, some dialectic among the gods concerning my fate, spoken in a language I cannot comprehend, but which, at such hopeless points of resignation that I am turning to give up, I catch a familiar turn of phrase. And the universe is a twinkling puzzle expanding around me, and I am its center, and God’s glory is blinding me from every direction. And I never forget.
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