Ruth Stone's poem ends with the line: "I cannot live without you, oh brief and inconceivable other." And then we're brought to Bianca's reality: writing poems on typewriters, drinking wine, and the line to start it all: "This is your love speaking."
In not knowing, just for a moment, you can directly discover yourself. This discovery does not arrive by thought, but by your own immediate direct experience. What is here, before every thought, after every thought and during every thought?
In anticipation of 12/21/12, this past year saw a return of the doomsday film. Melancholia was an okay end-of-the-world movie, but for this fan, it was not a very good Lars Von Trier film. Perhaps a third viewing is in order.