If reality is irrepressible variety, elaboration is its way in time. All this pouring forth of star-matter that pools about planetary systems (or for that matter black puddles that pool about a ruined animal) would carry no opportunity, no great expectation if not for some germ of labor that haunts the manifold; an effort urging the aimless to receive union. Love’s gain is labor won from worlds otherwise void of distinction & learning; mud holes absent of informed movement & poetic utterance; a carbon atom, a memory, or dragon fly of unenlightened wandering.
Aim presupposes desire. And are not our physical laws the aim of what abides the plenum? We behold the habits & aspirations of mass & energy in the evolution of our universe. Every “well-formed” tumult is pregnant with such ambition that will heat into matters of great effort—as it does among organisms & their biologies of union that differentiate from a whole into parts that strive to be more fit (more whole) than that which begat them. Dogs that die in our arms are without this exertion. Stars that die unseen in the black background of a sun & her offspring, are without this elaboration. Ephemeral entities engorged with desire, get sustained by getting hold of others that make each more whole, even as they seek to undo it all by elaborating into novelty. The preponderance of specimen provide the waste that provides evolution its great range of selection. By “waste” we mean this incited tumult & its irrepressible generation. The ceaseless "product" of creation.
Variety is desire’s plenum. Nothing can claim absolute monotony; nowhere the deed of perfect accord when the evolving planet that hangs together is beset with the profound enthusiasm of solidarity; when the evolving dog is beset with the great need to gather, regulate, assemble & exchange endless drafts of Life’s ambitions. Is this not how we might define the Love—the coming together to come away diverse, complex & anxious to create? Is it not what makes for an eyelash that swipes at the dust of California; or a comet whose dusty tail contains the cuneiforms of planetary conception; or an excess of thought that floods a swollen brain; an ecstasy that fails to contain its effort, but presses upon the modest root-work of a word or two that than begins the essay?
Empty is the search of space that carries an island
universe as far away from its Ideal as it does from every other, &
within each, that selfsame breadth of space that is this going away distance between every starry rudiment, which is the selfsame breadth
of the deep that divides an electron integument from its pneuma, &
that from its germ, & those, theirs, just as any of a kind is to
its embryo, as that is to a planet, & as that, to the new universe
(how many life-times away?) that becomes by chance & happy
accident the satisfaction of a moth, the intent of pregnant
bindweed, & the mind of either animated by consideration of how so
much variety is One (is Whole & Parented), how its gathering increases, how its unity elaborates, beset as it is with all this empty awayness
which even now is penetrated by solitary half-spirits (half-creatures? half-children!)
that pass through us in numbers that are half-infinite, as they wander
on with less effort than the sweep of an eyelash—these evanescent
angels lost in mere space, afflicted with the Absolute as nothing ever is
that loves, that lives & dies, ever is.
