If you imagine the tree of the world you’re doing the proper work of the mind.
Sometimes, late at night, I see the twisted branches of the world rising toward the Milky Way.
Now what does “proper” mean? The imagination has no manners. The tree is pure growth in its dark inheritance. The mind is jealous and wants to rise. If someone asks me what I’m thinking I say I’m seeing treasures for which there are no nouns.
**
Now I’m tired. I forget about the tree o’ earth. I read a cheap detective novel and fall asleep. In my dream someone has given me a pair of farmers overalls to wear. I discover I’m walking on water lilies.
**
Explain your disinterested self, I tell myself. You know, the self when you’re not apparent. I dip my writing hand into a well formed by two tree trunks and wiggle my fingers in the murky rain water.
**
Heraclitus:
It would not be better if things happened to people just as they wish.
This is why I love the tree of the world. It grows or doesn’t, always without hope.
**
It rains in the apple trees
Where a crow settles
In a dome of blossoms—
I watch him
With my clear head
The way blind people do,
Feathers, wet leaves,
Bird’s feet
Scratching the boughs…
**
Proper work of the mind. Leaves falling in rain…
Planet of the Blind 