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What is the meaning
of this moment when
nothing seems to mean
anything - meaning that
nothing seems to
stand as a symbol for,
stand in the place of,
it is not - and then
everything standing
exactly as
it is, or as
what it appears to be
ceases to be
interesting, to engage
the heart,
and is that not
strange, that the world
only speaks when it says
it isn't
what it is,
or it is
what it isn't?

But after all, isn't
that what art is?
a mask placed over
the immediacy of
the everyday, the
matter of fact?
The painted board
that is not a painted board,
the tree
that is not a tree -
vibrations in the air that become
something other than
and so
the pious fraud
of the Liturgy -
engagement of the heart -
the fulness of being being
what we are not.

But is that not-being not
a matter of time, of not
being yet?
So that
the bread and wine become, like all
bread and wine
we eat and drink,
body and blood
in time -
body and blood being
miracle enough,
surely, what
more could you want?

Bread and wine
folding into flesh
as living flesh
folds into dust -
we are not, and maybe
never will be
what we are,
but should we be?
For surely that
is what we are,
what we are
called to be,
and isn't that
calling, that
drawing us out of ourselves, an abundance
of being, and isn't
an abundance of being -
abundance of beings -
tongues speaking? And isn't that
abundance of tongues
all about us

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