Thursday, March 12, 2009
63. For a Landing
The airplane glided over a bay, around which millions of people lived, and light from the low sun turned some water red. On the plane, I thought of the people down there all doing and saying all at once what they say and do, verbal and bodily, base and mysterious, reasoned, instinctual, weird, private, public: all of it, all of them, all at once in a moment, and of course I could only imagine someone imagining it because even one interval of its totality can't be represented. There is no realism big enough to handle reality. The airplane landed.