One of the great riddles of life is this.
The more we try to hold on to something, keep it at our clasp, the greater the chance we have of losing it or ruining it altogether.
Our best efforts can come to nil, meanwhile, with only minimal tending, our gardens grow; and our thoughts betray us. Love poisons, because it can come about for entirely the wrong reasons, and all the while, while we grasp and hold, our love turns to hate, like silt in the well water.
Of certainty and uncertainty, the seminal principle must be something along the lines of "right intention", or in the old vernacular, a kind of "noble purpose", observing a kind of rightness unbeguiled by either certainty or uncertainty, as the unconscious mind guides us, almost as if we could find love or fortune by just some underdeveloped internal sensibility. Certainty and uncertainty take a holiday and something as undefined as the tao comes into play, some seminal principle of the universe, and our hands move, with us being scarcely aware of it, as if to knit and darn and fiddle at the threads until the work is prepared.
Damming back the water would consume us. Behold an office on the face of the structure, men perturbed to sit and watch, day in and day out, see to the holding back of the water. Almost a jail sentence to be the poor bastard sent over public works hour after hour, but somehow accounted for, with one soul here and one or two souls there, for the good of all, the laying down and wasting of a few.
Conversely, in other matters, one lost and the world cries foul for having seen something of himself in the victim. "My emotions!" might exclaim the sufferer, following a thread of his own, unaware that after a time, the path of truth is lost, and there is only some revenging of an outraged daydream of a ghost, and that having reminded one of one's self.
I once called Danica Patrick, "a Ferrari". And I said, "I could see myself in that." Polishing the surface with the downsoft innards of baby diapers, and in the Rosa Corsa hue, I would see my own anxious face looking back at me, with a kind of blank concern.
My Fiat ticks and buzzes so. I would have it away, perhaps, and upgrade to a better beater.
Blank as trying to define the tao, for certain. That face on the top edge of the fender.
Hunter Thompson. "Oh fuck, that was me." That same blank face, as if I were digging out a splinter or dismembering a squirrel, with a kind of unmotivated attention, the kind of internally blank thing, as of a star collapsing inwards on itself, to then bedraggle and ruin several solar systems.
Working on my Ferrari. Stethoscope on the valve covers, getting a more symphony din than possible in naked sound, screwdriver on the exhaust manifold, feeling for that smoothness, than rhythm.
I could then, like my automobili, appreciate and pet over the Tao, but I cannot own it or fully lay hold of it. I can feel particles with I put my hands in the cloud, but I cannot put my arms around the cloud. So the particles on my hands, kissing, that part-damp, suffices for an experience, and not an ownership or proper having.
Such as to say, they agree that I own the cow, but the milk seems to go on after a time.
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