Letters From A Befuddled Subject
Saturday May 6, 2017 Second Letter Dear Jesus, In the minute is the root of all things and still things are so much larger than the minute; such the Tree and its fecundity by striving in rooting, suites itself to the soil while remaining something else. So much is this Jesus, that the upward direction of a Tree is to us a downward stride, indeed further still, its branches a downward release of dangling feet. The Ostrich is such which roots into the ground with its Major appenditure, its brain; and indeed it grows from an egg so much the seed, and breeds with the same ardent desire as the Root to the Tree to nestle into the soft warm earth. The Ostrich is really doing only what Ducks and other such feathered fowls do when they desire sleep; they rebreathe carbon dioxide until the hypnogogy cowls their minds into shuteye, eyelids open neap. This is the Nature, the fracture of convenience of the ability for the Ostrich to simply put his beak into his wing instead of the cold, cold ground. For the Tree, it is soft warm earth; for the Ostrich, it is cold, cold ground. For the Ostrich, it is the warm sunlit sky; for the Tree, it is the cold, cold abyss of Pi. That unknown emptiness of branches dangling down in the plain air, when its Nature is to
Root in the Ground, spreading its venues through the avenues of ant colonies and Bee hives. Never does the Root disrupt the animal, for its growth is steady and long in stretch; stress in its strive, rest in its station. Grow in me Jesus! Take my head out of the cold, cold ground of invincible ignorance and replace it to the Root and the soft warm Earth! Burrowing in, thrusting and trusting in Divine Mercy! Merci Mon Dieu! Your Befuddled Subject