Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sorrow centers. Noisy, musical, auto-deictic, onanistic, keeping itself secret, calling attention to itself, in the cave of the world, making a scene, holding itself in, holding onto itself, prolonging itself, pushing itself, as if tears could come from one’s crown, exhausting itself, finding itself, somewhere else, here. Sorrow centers the one who sorrows. But it centers to an opposite point from where, today, one is supposed to be or is praised for being “centered,” the still center of equipoise where one is already centered. Instead sorrow centers to a new center, to which it moves, not by moving towards it at all, but by pushing itself back into it, as if into a more primordial place, in refusal of what cannot be moved, what cannot go away, what should not be, what must be so one can sorrow. The sorrower centers herself in reverse, by repulsion into an unknown remembered place, pushing against the immovable. Like a metaphysical burrowing or birthing, not born into something, but born from, backwards, upsidedown, into who knows where, the way we were born.