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Page 176

And yet, we experienced gropers take a refined pleasure
in our forgetfulness, our stretched-out periods of expectant
blankness, for we've learned that our struggles do not
bring back the wanted word; it will come to us
in its own good time, arriving like a gift, a homecoming
ceremony. We've learned the patience all lovers learn
or go bonkers -- and so, instead of struggling,
we watch, bemused, as the lost word finds its way
back to us, machete-ing its path through jungles
of words we haven't used in decades; puzzling it's way
through yes-no mazes of brain neurons; without our help,
negotiating a vast bureaucracy full of waiting rooms,
long lines and bored, gum-chewing clerks
who are filing their nails and making
personal phone calls. (Pick your metaphor or
make up your own -- your metaphor here: __________
___________________________________________.)

The pleasure is in the prolongation of foreplay,
this process which occurs, quickly, unnoticed,
whenever we choose (or say without sense of choice)
any word, here extended in excruciatingly slow motion,
so that we can sense each step, like each throb
heralding orgasm; long minutes of knowing
the word is about to come, here it comes!
(The head of a newborn, cresting)...coming!
Coming!...and -- there it is! "Atrium," yes, I knew it well!
Of course, atrium! Dear old atrium, you scamp, you, come
to Papa!

And it's not just the joy of attainment,
but also the clear separation of self from brain mechanics,
the knowing that we know, have known all along;
the sense of the brain panting ("bear down, dear")
to catch up with our knowingness, give birth
to what is already fully formed in our wordless
knowing, which was there long before the brain
could supply a word for it.

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