Monthly Archives: July 2010

and so

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there are many things that come to mind, many things that seem to be, and the seeming is the arrival, and the arrival is the impetus behind other thoughts. there are days like this one, and in it, the seemings, disarranged, facilitate the extravagance of all that waits to be known.

i try (and the attempts are trials), to maintain composure, but sometimes, the way in which life coalesces merely compounds the idiosyncratic tendencies of everyone around me (or at least my perception of them) and every plan, every expectation, every hope, turn into something other than what we supposed it would be—what we had dared to dream.

fragments of other people’s songs, their lyrics, their own communion with the world: these things i use, to trace my life throughout the confluences of existence, and even to define my interrelation with the world. there was a time when those were my songs, my lyrics. for a while after the spirit died within me, i was bitter, but the music never really left me. it lingers yet.

waiting.

waiting, like so many other days in my life.

but this waiting, this moment, this churning, has a glimmer: a spark.

a recalescence.

there is something about this time, this moment, that shines. the waiting, this once, is a good thing, for i wait here, willingly, at the end of the all which never was, and the dawn of the all which might now become.

(earlier this week, I took an old draft and turned it into this. something significant had happened the previous night, which i’m not going to explain it here, but it was a good thing: one which changed the entire tenor of the original draft from July 8, which was a much darker time. i am driven by rainstorms of late, and they drive me towards a glistening light.)

an amalgam of what failed to become

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i sit beneath the rain again. it pages down, an unwritten book that so many have read since time forgotten.

on nights like this, it hollows crevices in my mind, and slowly fills them with melancholy, nostalgia, and stupidly even hope.

i am of that nature, possessed of the ability to dream, but not only to dream, to segment the dreams from the reformulated memories, the fears of what remains unknown, and the brief foreshadowing of insights i will later fail to recognize.

i don’t see everything, but what i do see, i see quite well.

which is not to say i always glean the right impression. especially when the rain comes, and then with it, the thunder and the lightning redefine every thought before i ever have a chance to set them down.

i breathe an air that is flavored with, colored by, comprised of this rain, and i remember all the things i wanted long ago, and none of them stand in my future. and no matter how deeply this rain saturates this moment and me, i come no closer to bringing them back to life.

and everyone else, having read these pages since time began, probably knows them for exactly what they are.

for a reason

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Sometimes, I wonder why I do the things I do. I don’t refer to myself in the third person very much at all, but I do quite often stand outside myself and become at a loss for what’s going on inside. Perhaps my communicative problems from the past really are grounded within me. I think I sometimes fail at giving myself the fuller insight as to what’s going on internally.

As a result of that, when people ask me what something I’ve published up here means, I don’t necessarily have an answer. While I’m not saying that not asking is the better course, just be advised I may not have what fits your definition of “clear answer.” I work a lot from the subconscious; it’s nothing mystical, it’s just unplanned. I feel no real need when it comes to the creative process (and my life definitely fits under that order of precedence) to direct every action, every movement, every response.

Only this, perhaps: The majority of my life is spent in waiting for things to come. And the waiting for it bleeds. I am somehow both too active to wait indefinitely, and too pensive to force my own hand.

Time is the sort of thing that can beat you coming and going. I try not to chase it too hard, but that rarely means I’m doing it right. Peace and closure are unattainables: meaningful ideals that have little true function in the world.

I’m alone right now for a reason. I only hope it’s a good one.

crawl

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things like dreams and dreams like days and days like things i’ve never known. there are no in-betweens when everything keeps to the edges. and there are no divisions when everything subverts everything else.

but there are no dreams, not truly. there are memories and a confluence of biochemical processes. there are phrases turned in wistfulness and the desire for pain to subside. and yet, a life without pain is hardly one worth living. and so the dreams, the memories, the processes all bring a pain that is both a comfort and a lie.