Notes

Some things are universal
Though eventually ideas fragment from perceived history
Context is personal
It is no longer relevant where the source inspiration lies
By what contrivance the truth was revealed and acknowledged
Or created
Things become facts
Facts themselves abstracts and translations
Each thing an abstract of another thing which is an abstract of something else
Somewhere separated from my psyche, all such things are tracked
The relationships between them defined
Written in a language outside of the humility of singular awareness

The rain unifies them
Miraculously aligns their language
And they all are silenced
So that the voice itself is an abstract of the sum total of their voices
It is a sound, a phenomenon beyond translation
There is no vocabulary and dialect for it
An advent that is both irrelevant and also specific in the extreme
Such things form the makeup of my awareness
Of my existence
Forming the vocabulary that the translations move through
A language like this is greater than I
Greater than as many of us would try and fathom it at a time
So I am inclined to acknowledge that these things are more than I can ever understand
And that to comprehend them is not my end
Nor to bring it to the attention of others
It needs not exist after the fact
The importance is in the action itself
The ritual and ceremony of translation and expression
It’s not for us to understand the meaning and the relevance
I am inclined to believe that the advent of translation is random
Almost accidental
Which is good
It means that I’m already accustomed to you not understanding it