30 Minutes

So today is the first day back to the keyboard in a little while. I did some pen and paper work whilst i was away, but really not that much. Ever since things got so filled up with testing, my writing life has seemed a bit stifled. And I can feel it now while writing this. It's a little bit strained, and going on without pausing to think is difficult. like starting up a cold car engine.

They do that in Minnesota, you know, when the temperatures drop so low that leaving your car exposed could spell death for the poor machine. So you get a cord, and plug your car in so that the ice doesn't reach your engine. It maybe looks a little bit awkward, but in this case, function certainly trumps form.

Keeping things alive when they shouldn't be. We do that a lot. We as a culture have learned to try and hold on to everything with an iron grip, but all that achieves is that the rope of faith cuts us even deeper as it wrenches itself free from our grasp. I'm not saying that we should just leave things as they are, such inaction is dangerous. That's why i loathe the word "fate." It promotes inaction, it allows for lethargy, and seeds passivity where activity should be. But you can't argue with the fatalists, because OF COURSE you would argue.

I don't want to take my fingers off the keyboard now. What I want to say doesn't really matter, so long as the typing continues. Keystroke after keystroke lands with it's own unique intention.

I see the clouds gathering in my mirror-pool
where my faith defines reality.
her surface reflects my heart;
her heart is hidden from my vision

where a fish once was I see bones
where green once thrived I see grey
I look at my reflection and see
only mottled skin and dried gums

a drop of rain hits the surface of the water,
distorting my perception for a moment
as ripples race outward in concentric circles.
a drop of rain hits my eye.

when I was young, I saw visions of the future
and the people praised my ability
when I was middle aged, I saw visions of the hidden present
and the people feared my insight.

now i see nothing but a shadowy reflection of the past,
the people do not care-- they wait for me to die
and I do as well, sitting beside my Eye, as the rainwater
comes to take me to bliss.

***

Lao Tsu said that the true master does without doing. I say that before becoming a "true master" one must do and do and do until they know that doing without doing is not inaction, but effortless action. As fluid and natural as the flow of water from a mountainous source to the ocean.

Insecta

The white terrifies me; the sanctity of the first page is powerful.  It stands before me now like a veil that I am now blotching black. And black. And black.  

I am a slow writer, by all measures.   I reread and rewrite with maddening frequency and finally, after all has been said, toss my work away like a discarded exoskeleton.  I've crawled out of it, emerged from it -- why should I return?

This blog will be about my thoughts on different things, not political, not controversial, merely things.  It will be a silt-filled torrent where my other work may be more accurately described as a pristine spring.  I want this whitespace here, to talk to myself, and to talk to you.  So that's what I'll try to do, for at least 15 minutes a day.  If I'm away from the computer, I'll write it down in a notebook, and then update it here later.

Maybe I'll describe the day's events in a sort of bland narrative, or maybe I'll describe a scene I just imagine.  I am a bit fond of stories -- I'll try one now.  

You feel yourself waking to the smell of damp earth and the gentle nudging of a ladybug.   You open your eyes slowly, then squint as the sun makes his "good morning."  The ladybug is walking along your palm; her tiny legs tickle your skin.  Sitting up is hard, but you manage just as you have every other day of your life.  You flex your neck and let loose a glorious roar.  

Sit up, sun warms your face.  He is higher than he should be -- you've overslept.  Maybe this time it will be okay, no-where to go, nothing to do.  Maybe this time, it is a blessing that you are no-one.  Because in being no-one, you are everyone.  Like the worker ant or the single ladybug -- each insignificant, each integral to the circus of life.  You are the steel girders that support the trapeze artists.  Unglamorous? Certainly, but essential.  

Now you are more powerful than anyone, you, in innocuous ubiquity.  Your situation is more glorious than any hero's because without you, there would be no land to save, no kingdom to conquer.  The mindless drones of the bee-hives, I wonder what you think while you are still alive.  I wonder where you will go, with you furious, but fickle flame.  

***

So not really a story I know, but I did say this would be a silt-filled river.  I won't edit what I write here, this will be pure, raw thought.  Thanks for joining me, and I hope there will be more to come.