Greetings from beneath a gray sky. I feel like it’s worth checking in now, seeing as how you may not see me again…at least for a time, or for what may be not a time but a shade. I find curious the curious stare, the pomposity of the wordless rebuke. Who is alive more–the silent creature of stasis or the shifting star of the stage? Who are you if you are always you, but you is always a you and never a them? I feel, as I watch the coffee sippers and hear abstractly the idle chatter of the bourgeois surrounding, that you all need a little prod as to what I’m about (as if the spinning years of this blog’s existence isn’t enough!). Maybe you know and just don’t care to tell, but I doubt it. Not a hopeless soul I have encountered across the planes of my journeys has mustered even a competent clue. Maybe that’s not so true. (Maybe, just maybe, it was you!)
Why don’t you just come out and say it, you ask? Why the gates, why the guards, why the shades, why the stars? Apollo! How feeble! How meager! Don’t you listen at all? It’s all there–in my lectures, my rants, my garb, my tweets, my signs, my poems, my love, my masks. Why don’t I just sing it as I go? I strum a banjo tune for you now. Listen: bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. Now you know.
But this is all in fun. In serious, dead serious, fun. Is it so wrong to want to make you all alive to the world, to the cosmos, to yourselves? Think of how much you miss when you drive such a straight path at such a quick speed. Not a wonder to see; not a day to pass into dark, silent, starry night; not the burst of blossom in spring, nor the most luminous death in autumn, nor the sighing blankets of Demeter’s depression. Vivaldi goes unheard! Ernst unseen! Life indeed unlived. You blink and suddenly you’re at the other coast, tank empty in the same old dying car, nothing before you but the dark tides of the other end. And all that was missed–oh! all that was missed.
Often I have loved, but who was that ‘I’ whose heart brimmed? A different ‘I’ each time, a different soul that blinked and came alive before dying again. You must die to live, again and again. The crux of life and love. Burn down Rome to build it again. But this can’t be so! How can we end and begin, end and begin? Where is the attainment, where is the happiness, where is the constancy? This is it. But this is not it. This is it, and so much more. But it’s not for me to say now, not fully.
Only in love can we find ourselves. And it is only when we find ourselves that we can find love. What am I saying? How does this work? Where does it end? Such is the glory and the mystery! In the nearly three years preceding this one I felt myself die, day by day, withering like an orchid trapped in perpetual winter. But, yet, such power I had! Only it wasn’t over myself. Cravenly, I retreated into the comforting repose of sorrow, behind the masquerading zeitgeist of question marks swaying on directionless in the breeze. It was not the sorrow or the melancholy of falsity which destructed me so; it was rather the directionlessness of that breeze. When there is sorrow without productivity is when there is sorrow in vain. Wasted sadness! Wasted love! Waste! Nothing is so maddening as waste. During this time I worked extensively on what was supposed to be the apex of my brimming spiritual trek, the Pieces of Solstice, or, June Songs, and yet. And yet. Such is the story of my life–and yet!
A moth upon the window. Flutter, don’t move. A fish upon the surface. Wade, don’t die. What should be this is always that. What should have been relieving retreat, an equilibrium-restoring tryst, becomes the saving grace of a floundering poet. Like a dream in the night she came, breathing life, shining light, and then gone. (Those who we want to stay go so quickly and those who plague indeed plague forever!) And I left, a happy wanderer to journey the trails of my days, creating, loving, lighting, intriguing. Dance, Luna! Shine on!
So what now? Where do I stand? Where do I land? Many a project for the “business side” of me: bringing others into today, a day of media proliferation–not refusing it, but exploiting it! Why resist a force to which there is no resistance? Give in to it, not in acquiescence, but in exploration and expansion. Not dwell in the comfort of that which is already known, but confront that which is unknown. Not make it new, but take the new and make it yours. Appropriation is the key to novelty.
I continue to be dream-driven and ambitious in all my thoughts and endeavors. So often I’m met with such hesitation or outright resistance out of a certain discomfort others have with my methods of thought and approach. It’s frustrating some times, that I cannot deny, but ultimately I strive to embrace it (or flat-out ignore it), asserting my cause. To me, I am only unordinary because I am not like you who is ordinary–treating ordinary here as a standard or trend tethered to an imaginary ideal (as if ideals were ever otherwise). To me, I am nothing more than a part of this place–I do not claim things which are supernatural, or fantastical–and the components of this place are vast, ever-expanding in dimension, and blending together to comprise the splendor that is before us, around us, inside us. Why should I ignore these? I respect them too much. I respect this place. I respect the mind. I respect art. If this frightens you, curious, aimless, gazer, I do assert my sympathies.
My poetry has taken on (again) new and exciting forms. Where I grew bored with its repeating stagnancy before, I have discovered a genuine, metamorphosing voice now and the results have left me pleased and engaged again. The still-unfinished June Songs shall remain so until I am ready to revisit them, which shall be when I can declare an ending. Maybe I’ll continue direct some moonbeams into this place, but what’s the point if you don’t see them? And speaking of this place, I have a new project which I am about ready to introduce as soon as the time feels right. This site will continue to grow, continue to seem abstract, its purpose still unrecognized. My confessions, which I write on a hidden blog, shall continue to be written and clues as to its domain name shall continue to be embedded here. I continue to prowl the history of words and ideas, building my own with every blink. I continue diverging, digressing, exploring, traversing. My third book comes into focus. As does my fourth, a collaborative effort. Which brings me to another idea I’ve had: I feel as if I am ready to unlock my chest for others. I’m being dishonest, actually. It was the end of last summer where I felt ready. The work, again, of my phantom love. I retreated back into my self through the winter, building, warming. I feel ready again, ready to share, ready to collaborate. Now, as for the collaborator? I have an idea, but does she?
I want no part of your revolution; I have my own, and you’re welcome to join it if you’d like. I fear my time here is expired. Time for other things. Continue to follow love and light. Keep following, keep thinking, keep expanding.