Eliot said the natural language of drama is poetry, I say the natural language of all manner of sentience is music, or anything that evokes it thereby reversing the normal psycho-epistemological process and reaching that raw core in us directly and irrevocably. Its been a long time since I read her last.yesterday my little sister asked me what "ineffable" means, and as I was explaining its meaning to her somewhere inside someplace a tiny voice kept insisting,just say "its rather like a Mary Oliver poem".I do not feel like addressing her with a commonplace Miss Oliver.not when I know her like that and she me.Mary strips me of all my desperate strength, all the futile hard earned evolution and adornments I managed to soil myself with on the way, and as I now sit back, softly murmuring the wise words of her love letters to life, I feel that natural nakedness again, all the excruciating otherness washed and anointed with tender images of the ridiculously simple,my hands are trembling as I type this,I cannot even begin to explain the kind of ancient guttural reflexes she elicits from me.
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