Me: No. I don’t wanna.
Her: Look! Come on! How are you going to understand if you don’t look?
That’s the point. I don’t want to understand. If I don’t look, if I don’t see, I don’t have to start to understand. I can stay here, away. On the periphery, full of judgement, empty of compassion.
Her: Look. Please. Look.
An on-the-fly-translation of a Rumi poem in response to the burning of a manuscript:
“She said, I set this fire for a reason. Don’t question what you don’t understand.”
But if I don’t question what I don’t understand how the fuck am I ever going to know anything, learn anything?
Her: Look. Just… look…
I have not idea what I’m looking at. What I’m looking for, I know. Truth, right? What else do we ever look for?
Truth. Some version thereof.
Flora: Mom? What is truth?
I look at her. I try not to lie.
I suspect I do.
Look, a quote from Thich Nhat Hanh:
“What happens next depends on you.”
Of course. Always.
Her: What are you going to do?
This should have a post-script, I think, don’t you? OK. Let’s do it:
You: Fuck, Jane, were you stoned?
Me: Stone sober, beloved. But pensive and playful at the same time. Also, generous. I wanted you to look. Did you?