Dream of the coming summer. What we’d Do, in the summer. What we’d do with the summer.
To reclaim it – our potentiality. Our youth! Our faith! To take it back from everything that would put it to work.
Our perpetual beginning, forever ahead of us. Our hidden childhood. The spring. The Originary. That hadn’t been crushed in us. That had been lost in us. That could still breathe in us.
Wasn’t that what we always sought, with our dreams of summer? Wasn’t it that with which summer work would reunite us?
Possibility: that was to be our element. Potentiality – that’s what we were to experience.
We’d be brought back to ourselves. Given ourselves – all over again.
The summer in us. Our summer.
The perfect coincidence of ourselves and the Origin. And the Beginning. And the Inexhaustible.
What we’d Do, at last. What was to come. What Opened.
Wasn’t that why we wrote: to experience it, potentiality? To return to it: the beginning, upstream of everything?
To coincide with at last. To find your way back to it at last.
That’s the other summer, the impossible summer, where you’d find your way back. Where you’d contemplate your way to the Origin.
The summer you’d never reach. The summer you’d disappoint. The summer that was the promise of writing. The promise to recover what was lost at the beginning. In the Division from the beginning.
So lay your head on the summer earth. Lay it on the summer sand. Rest your head.
Forget your thoughts, so you can remember them again. Forget your Philosophy, so you can return to it again.
If you fell asleep in the sun, what then? If you closed your eyes, of what would you dream? Where would your dreams lead you?
That’s how our stupidity would join hands with our genius. That’s how our idiocy would marry our brilliance.
Work in Progress 