Monday, December 20, 2010


This peculiar mutation, consciousness—
in a field where energy stills—it pulls apart
to make believe the one thing differentiates—
a splay of splinters broken off like ice

While any shadow of the whole—is only darkness,
a resting spot where thoughts can re-create.
What flares—disappears in sunlight,
the curve within a perfect bending course.


Anonymous said...

I love the way the words flow. Consciousness as a mutation...I have the feeling I'm not getting everything out of it that I could. Can you help me understand? Is that a terra cotta warrior?

William A. Sigler said...

I really appreciate you meeting me halfway here, Victoria. This strain of poetic thought is difficult for me as well. Yesterday's was about how we are allowed to create any reality we want to, as long as we accept its temporary nature -- and how the true gift is that our errors are erased along with our creations, because, as you say, the records are always there, because we are always there.

Today's was prompted by a pre-eclipse/solstice sense I had of oneness this morning -- how false it feels sometimes to step away from the one into separate forms, whatever they may be. Consciousness is the thing that is separate, that mutates the whole into false parts. I'm interested here in how the walking away from the one is assimilated by the one, how spirit is changed without changing. A tough concept, I know, to write about.

As for the terra cotta Buddha in the crate, that's a photo I took at a statuary store in Ridgefield, CT this summer. I liked the idea of a buddha in a cage for this, but I can't say exactly why.