I don't claim to understand wholly my life and the point of the experiences I have managed to remember hitherto. But there are moments when I feel I am inching closer to understanding how I can accept that ambiguity and make more people confront it too, even though it is somewhat uncomfortable. Poetry was--and still is--that which has made me recognize how absurd 'it' all is, life and the myriad of inventions, both ours and not. It's not to be taken lightly, however, for it is something dismal and nirvanic and all levels in between. But it's all sort of a wild scramble towards something. Maybe time, t, will reveal some ultimate meaning--some revelation at the end of a long-forming equation. I must look to some poets to emphasize this, I feel. One of which is Babstock. Complicated, yes, but he peels back the layers of the bittersweet life-onion.
"We should be held and forgiven." But should we? When someone drives an emotional javelin into your groomed emotional terrain, can you hug them? When the atom bomb reigns godly in the sky and plummets toward a city and leaves silhouettes of death upon the ruins, could you hug the survivors and the killers in the same way? Would you hope to carry the radiation from survivor to killer? Or should you be forgiving and call it a bad mistake and move on? I've struggled with this Babstockian ambivalence my entire life. When the Father smites me for not following in His footsteps, beats me, commits to sending me to the tree-lines to chop wood, should I handout forgiveness for His behaviour? Conscience is anomaly, and forgiveness is forgetfulness , perhaps. My ambivalences still writhe within me.
"You are free, and that is why you are lost." Kafka.