Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

“Little Fluff”

Chirp-Chirp! Says a bird.

Boom!

June. 5th 7.40pm.

By the drear grey end of Sunday, my brain hardly works. Don’t feel with it anymore. But here’s a smidge, it’s crumbling in, a hunch from Simone Weil, ‘We’re not to eat the beauty here below.’ Simone bids humans to be content just looking. Don’t eat. Be content to remain hungry. Stay hungry. Not just for now. But for evermore.

*

And this is the one fact. The hunger has stayed. Despite all. For all the biffs and bangs, the punches and whacks, this hungering is the only evidence, if still not the proof of the reality of God.

And who was it that said, ‘The only proof for God is God’?

*

Still June the 6th.

After the Hotel Pannonia, back on bus to the Lövér. The world outside it is no longer melodious. It’s under a hot summer cloud. The enclosing forest is denser, sombre with some intent. But in me, and I’m hanging by it, a ghost of a thread of a chance for which, like an echt! a real Hungarian, I first begged, then wheedled, whined, then pulled out my gun. It’s a whisper of what has already been said by all the people I asked for a reply. The helplessness of God. The Guy carries no Gun. He has no shooting power. He lost it to matter when he withdrew from it to allow human history to unfold from a point of almost incomprehensible nothingness. And into which I blundered a week or so ago with the cry of a bird shrieking for its life. But if I allow this to God, my grief will not be quelled. And God too shall go on suffering as well. If I let this go 131