A journal of narrative writing.
Via Negativa

Listen to Via Negativa read by Bruce Bond

for Paul Tillich

Our godless god, our one no one, our all things small, our no thing in particular, our wind in the belfry bronzed with fading praise, remember, when my candles offered up their shadows, you were no god to me, and so I turned instead to the act of turning, the prayer I offered up as I looked down, each word floating through my back. And in my vigil, I saw a bug on the carpet, a sapphire of a creature, as it scuttled, stopped, chose, in faith, a new direction. Spirit is cheap, I thought. No. Cheaper. Itís free. Its legs move the clockwork in the great world machine of small decisions, spiriting from here to there, to nowhere in the narrative scripture. Back then I feared all the wrong things and touched the blue beneath the kettle. The bigger I got, the tougher the freedoms, the bluer the flame. If only the future were some beneficent tyrant. How unbearably clear. Instead I woke my father to sweep the phantom insects from my bed. It’s nothing, he said. And with that, I pulled my blanket, sealed the dark in something darker. Nothing, nothing echoed. It still does. I have no father, no earth but this. The path into sleep is the same long passage into morning. I choose therefore I am chosen, spoken. I speak. Therefore I leave this ghost, my voice’s voice, behind.