Driving through north central austin.

Driving through a city the infinities of space that open before you become indistinct, a blur waving over action. There is an artistry of movement that is lost with a timid conservatism, but is absolutely obliterated with haste, speed.

Every yard past a small universe pregnant with meaning, an ecology opening up to those who wonder at the world and see in its actions mystery or beauty. To think as a child passing life through a small yard and smal house full of webs of force and transitions, flows of life and death. To think then as an army of children, a mob of them, each living out in this little pocket of focused intensity. When do we forget to think and feel as such?

When do we abandon understanding of this sort, intimacy with the world of this sort, in favor of something colder and simpler and falser, plainly falser? The child studying the behaviors of birds of the movement of wind through leaves, the little webs of life surrounding an old tree, even the boards rotting and breathing slowly in a house or the emotional bonds and tensions of a family, this child knows the world truer. We simply have lacked a world for it until we began to speak the name "ecology." We have lacked a way to express the limited, focused infinity opening in all directions of any space, and we still lack a metaphysics that allows this proposition of ecology to express itself fully.

Propositions are dependent upon their metaphysical milieu says Whitehead, that which allos them to exist and take on meaning, and we lack this understanding that might bring out the full breadth of this concept. Except in poetry and art and cultivating, but they have been forced to margins and held there. But enough of that.

These spaces of infinity, they are not simply individual affairs, but they are affairs requiring a stillness, a quiet and an attentiveness that we can no longer maintain if we act in the world as though it were a horror to be conquered and made livable.

We live in fear, the all-embracing fear of what may occur if for an instant we hold back out speech, hold back our guns and machines and cars and even our wills and desires and plans, and listen to what speaks unbidden. What moves through the world like a wind, what will we encounter when we allow the life-world to flow through us rather than force our Vision upon it? Will we hear it screaming in pain or laughing in easy and unconscionable forgiveness, pleasure at both our folly and guilt for that folly? Like waves of ether spilling from the sun will the sound dwarf us so absolutely that our minds shatter and recompose as the souls of angels?