If I hadn’t texted him I would not be caught up in the thingness of being rejected and of should not be doing. I would be dwelling in the infinite possibilities of the openness of this night alone and my cows and sheep would have a large paddock. The aboutness of my Friday night is now waiting and reaction to rejection instead of the spaciousness of reading Zen and Heidegger. My thinking and writing appears as the phenomenon of diversion instead of the thing in itself. My present is should not haveness. The jug is this house and it is a vacuum that pulls in longing to spill. It wants to be filled, held and poured. Being is containmentless. Being is relationshipless. A jug filled with water immersed in water. Break the house. This is being. Things are manifestations of two opposing parts, like self and other. Meditation destroys thingness. My little suicides are manifestations of the duality of killer and killed. The silence is being with the presence of the absence of the phone ring. He not ringing and inviting me over and after hours of intersubjectivity me going to leave and him not pulling me down on the orange couch beside him. Him not saying we should not do this, it only ends in tears, there is no aboutness about this and entering me. He not dwelling in me with the intentionality of itself in itself sometimes not even moving. Only a receptacle however can empty itself. I shape the void into the thingness of his penis. Holding needs the void as that which tightens. The climax gathers what belongs to extinction of division. The two parts the receiving, the receptacle, the void and the outpouring as giving. We don’t come apart and the room doesn’t fill with leaving and receding. It empties
From Claire Gaskin’s collection, Paperweight.