Thomas Lowe Taylor -- ltr Her

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anabasis
Thomas Lowe Taylor
Oysterville WA 98641-0216
taylort@pdx.edu

January 24, 1996

Dear Friend~

What’s called into the license is no mere forgetfulness but a desire beyond desire itself in uniting or copying into the space where one has, uh, existed, but come alert into what’s new around us not mitigating sensation nor leaving love aside, no mere complication in “today’s climate” where distrust defeats love in its attempts to decide even about what to do tomorrow.

But after this, you might decide it’s worth it after all, and with courage and intent in mind, your own sensuality disguised or made safe, it’s into the world after all, and within chance or the journey itself, you recall others who have passed through you and left impressions more deeply than you’d care to say, if after that you are still alive inside, it’s no wonder the days pass unwillingly and hope remains in your heart for something new.

If I say I know what I want, perhaps that’s a challenge and perhaps its a place to start from in the more lighted spaces the heart wanders after. And in repeat, there is a name to give to sharing which is somehow alleviated from doubt in its trusting after what you want in what you give and what you get all in their mutual relation to some curiosity about what you encounter in the other worlds you know you will inhabit.

Places of the heart, perhaps, or what’s going on inside walking out into the open air and going beyond again, saying hello, asking for a photo, letting go of doubt, saying, where, or when.

Day’s eve. No matter, the sun is skyward inside the same in what been said along the way, no others in the way besides the heart beating inside, and what’s passion between us is as yet more imagined than the unimagined of what’s left behind.

Mainly, the pain is gone, and a new life understates is existence in what was never experienced before in a sense of newness and welcome. That to give is not so unusual but left alone, what’s the deal, and in between moments, there’s still a song left to sing.

The other day at the beach, nothing passed through me like a warm wind of welcome, and the sound of my own silence left like another of the swarms of tiny birds sweeping across the surfline at a distance of about 2 inches above the mud and bubbling sands as they come into the place where I’m standing in the water, thinking of you.

So it’s undelivered but still intense, and the more wholesome aspects are as yet only divined, even though what you imagine is somehow usually left to experience to prove or not. Perhaps you have a face, too, and call the dreaming hour less alone than ever.

day