Whales of Idealism and Imagination

What’s so great as that which is able to attack from a position of dependency on the container that holds it? What’s so great as that which can’t be named or thought of because of the fear that it might that way become better known? In emptiness, nothingness, and void it lies. But beyond our world: It’s growing away from bare factual reality, anchored in a mass of soul, and contained by the limits of the faith of man. It’s the barrior to reality; the door to the soul; in the house of idealism and imagination it’s the Pacific tantamount to the relm of the house of imagination. Reality is the moon, causing its tides to crash against the continents of recession to a real future. Perfected whales, ideally suited to this sea, swim into it through the door from the soul; no more reality but the tides of their environment; no more walls but the limits of the faith of man, their food. And man’s ultimate faith is in reality. Is there such a thing in man?

November 1969