losing your marbles

Little bit more about the Twain:


We can go to the theater with a marble in a box in our chests. The marble is what we think a play is; we don’t expect – don’t even want the same marble to appear (that would be weird)… But we want to see one (more!) marbles like it. We come in with a marble looking for marbles. The play may have a billion other things in it, none of which are marble-ish or suitable for a box, and we miss them because our magic has lost its power in habit. If still inclined forward, we can take a step and try and read what’s truly in front of us; often in our greed for interpretation, we make up a translation out of whole cloth when the language is foreign to us. A doodlebug doodles and we think we know what a witch is up to; we assume that weak and habitual magic is used against us – someone smarter than we are (only by dint of luck) is boxing us, calling us stupid or owning us – that the play has captured our marble, instead of the other way around – some trick has gotten the better of us.


In a play, and in trauma, maybe there are no marbles; you’ve got room in the box you brought for more than marbles; you’ve got more room than a box; let the doodlebug dance as it will and watch it because thank God you can behold a creature that is wholly itself without explanation or apology. You are in the blissful energy of learning, the pure action of learning.




Separately, from a conversation yesterday… AIDS is genocide, of course. Not the disease, though – rather: the planning, the strategic ignorance, the industries and technologies that continue to convert people to things/types/behaviors, stripped of soul and available to the shadow. A genocide isn’t killing, it isnt’ the bad feelings – the horror, the broken consciousnesses – although those are its freight. Genocide is in the will, in the option, in the logic, the coherence behind intentional erasure.

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