26.
Here I am, sure of a faith that is not blind, & yet when I ask myself the question of it — who testifies? I wonder if it isn’t more so that my faith has become totally blind: I led myself to the ledge of whatever was possible for me to know, to see, to be — & over I went, over I am, over it is. But who says this?
A beginner. But you’ve come some way if you can call yourself that.
I begin right here, yet again, at where it seems I can’t go on. But the brick wall is my best friend: so long as I am, you are always there for me to bang my head against. Literally the rock speaks for itself: all the earth is a testimony to reality, just in a way it is impossible to think, or not to think, say there is always at least one miracle left to witness — for the miracle is witnessing itself — but what does this mean but the absolute antithesis of watching yourself watching, observing the observer or observation itself.
The antithesis. The surpraxis. A discombobulate monk. None other. No.
Yes. The rock speaks for itself. Even my knowing is the word of another. The hare is more the creature of imagination than the unicorn, yet without the unicorn the hare would not exist, else would only exist, same thing. The animals profess my own faith. Everything they feel is pure. When death happens & they mourn, their suffering is salvation because it is totally satisfying. The sky quenches every thirst because the sky testifies, it speaks for itself, it tells you everything you would ever want to know, the rest you can tell yourself you tell yourself:
Once in a dream my vision stayed behind to watch the meat peripheral plucked from its field
my belief in my own death is a testament that my life has a centre
light is a tree with its roots in the earth
the jewel is a particle of dirt
space speaks more solidly than its stars
Who am I to judge the horse?
The green of the grass is not a beauty competition
But perhaps it must remain the devil, imagination: let those who imagine they are good turn the truth into attestation.
Strange.
Who is the liar then? Perhaps you just slipped, after all there are certain ways only you can push yourself. You meant to say: turn the truth into an assertion.
For it is true that the light asserts nothing, & it is clear that there is no-one in turn who is asserting that. But the light testifies: there is a judgement in its speaking for itself: that the light says light is not a tautology but a judgement, indeed perhaps the last. Then my root is no mistake but the true foundation: an impossible act of discernment which sets you up as your own judge: testimony is the heart of your understanding of honesty: you have judged nature wholly innocent
You are not certain guilt can even be proved
You know that art proves itself
Art is a way you constitute your own proof
It is the testimony of the human
It is also a judgement upon them
hence your gift is one none can ask for
& you are horrified to see — even in your perception of beauty — an accusation
Yet it is pure smile to say
Who is to blame for this beauty?
