by not naming, has not happened
years ago i drove up to montreal and i remember it was night and when we arrived all the cafes were playing john lennon and we felt torn apart, a kind of exile there, we were cut off, the new city was singing, we had left the old. now here in providence, repetition with another singer, another voice, in the bookshop, and another death and with each there's the shortness of the span which contracts with every passing. there's nothing to say beyond that, beyond exiles, as we're all exiled in this world and not in the world to come, which is always and always already without us. every death is the death of a world and every world is inside one, or another, and every world is private, shared and unshared and without translation. and it doesn't matter if one dies at forty or seventy-one or ninety-seven, it remains the death of a world, and the world's death, and the death of being and being's horizon. and we can mourn only so long as we are in exile, and when our exile ends, others mourn may in our stead or perhaps not at all, and we shall not know, we shall never know. _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list [email protected] http://www.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
