recalled this today. how, when I went to the oracle at Siwa, an oasis in the Saharan desert where Alexander the Great consulted disembodied voices who spoke of his fantastic destiny, I felt not a damn thing but hothothot, dizzy, touristic, perhaps a little bored even. I went back to the bus and, damn hot, within minutes saw this in my mind: an eye opening, or no, shutting. trying to open. trying to shut.
'your eyes are closed. and your eyes are open.' this, then, I heard, over and over again. a male voice. calm.
i haven't written about it as i still have not understood it.
is it good that my eyes are closed?
for being closed (to what? so much...) are they therefore open?
to what are my eyes open?
i guess i need to ask myself - to what are my eyes open?
it could be good that they are open.
or, they could be open to the wrong thing. shut them to open them.
my eyes are closed. and my eyes are open.
in the context of Egyptian sensibility: die and see.
i don't know. today, like all days: a mix of obliterating ignorance and hope, partially merited.
i miss my poetry challenge.
what could i have written if someone would have asked me to respond to...(anything)(please).....?
in the absence of that, perhaps a weekly response to; your eyes are closed. and your eyes are open.
this, I suppose, entry 1.
