Correspondences
After Baudelaire: “Nature is a temple”
If a line leafs, as leaves follow flowers
fading before they have ever happened,
that is spring, and this is language.
A simultaneity happens that has never happened —
speaking to you now of magnolias
edging brown before description —
before description allows itself to be enacted
before magnolias transition from winter bud, possibly
to scatter on sidewalk. Before us, before we
have walked over them before us. They develop in
time that moves through us, even as we move against
it, losing a day as we float backward past datelines and
equators, in time that moves whether in space or in motion
that time is in our body, and while in our minds, which
are energies made of an incessant construction of the various
entities of our body rubbing against each other in constant
reorganization of combustion and transmission — even in
our mind-energies, there is only simultaneity — our multiple
consciousness frames events as one happening relational, the trip
10 years ago jostles the plan for employment — memory
is future — we remember as to be able to travel forward — if
we do not, would not, dwell in the past we become disorganized
our parts no longer able to communicate: communication depends on
electrical flash mobilized from pt. A to pt. B and instantly back
again creating a simultaneous line of both and all directions,
even affecting all the points, creating not a circle but a woven
sphere within spheres and triangle and all ovoid, rectangles, elliptical —
cohered into a cone that travelled through by plane then wears
on the body, again the body is time in that these instantaneous,
multidirectional, simultaneous communiqués show by their
energies, or no, there is no cause right now to find. Instead, display
what seems to be a passage of time thru the body, but the
body is time — nothing passes through it, time is not a river
but the body in beautiful entropy, is of it, not just in it,
Cannot be described in conjunction or as other.
Just body/time without equal sign. But nature is a temple,
filled with living pillars, the flat plane passes through the cone
made of many geometric parts, the cone is altered, the plane
has passed through and has not happened yet, the plane is memory
and the cone is what is being assembled, always under construction,
a collection of tangents, and as plane passes through, small pieces
cling to it, journeying elsewhere and leaving cone eroded, as
living pillars speak in blurry languages, what they say is mistranslated
they may be in the temple of nature, or of it, or the temple is
where time becomes the entity we always imagined it to be,
something separate and comprehensible in that separation
from us, to be able to stand apart like a pillar and observe, even if
for one second, a second occurring with all the other seconds
around it, companionably, to make a minute that occurs with
all the other minutes, to take a hold of, like grabbing a river,
That which exactly what it is not and therefore maybe might be.
The space between eye and eye elided in transmission
of gazing at self in a mirror and looking once and
at the other organ of vision, the brain compensates and reaches
conclusion before induction has even laddered.
John Ashbery and the arts
Edited byThomas Devaney Marcella Durand