Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection
Sometimes, I don't have much to say when I write this section of my blog. Sometimes, I believe I have everything to say when truth be told it's just a wrap-up of my week and my perfectly tangible experiences. Every Friday is different. Circumstances produce what I type on this tiny compact screen, with font commands and arrows and html coding procedures. What happens, happens.
Tonight, it's a moment in which I have everything to say, but I don't know how to say it. The short answer: I had a whirlwind of a phone conversation with my beautiful cousin, Lara. What about? Everything. Poetry, art (and the fact that to be an artist, you don't have to exude art, that's just cheesy and not authentic), teaching, experience, life, love, religion, faith, belief, certainty versus uncertainty, the concept of choice. Not cut and dry, but instead exposing a throbbing vein without any way of truly seeing what moves under the glass.
I am a writer who lives in uncertainty. But within that uncertainty is, shockingly, self-awareness. I will have my own reservations regarding my stability, my self-confidence, and my philosophy as an individual. I am human. It is normal. But has anyone wondered if true self-awareness is simply the ability to be something, and believe something, without any sort of...
I can't even say it. I can't put it in human words. Like I said, sometimes I have everything to say but just can't say it properly. Right now, as I type, my left hand keeps straying to the tiny class ring I wear on a chain around my neck. It's my maternal grandmother's high school ring, too small for my fingers. I wear it every day.
Today, a man I know died of pancreatic cancer. I lost my grandmother because of pancreatic cancer. I never met her. The ring is a tangible object. The emotion surrounding it is what carries me. Emotion carries me. The mind carries me. Words carry me. Language in its most basic raw form. No clear motive. No clear agenda. I cannot write when I say to myself, "I want people to get a specific message out of it." As a writer, that is not my job.
I celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday and am so thankful for so many people and so many things. Most of all, I am thankful for agape - unconditional love. Love without conditions or rules or disclaimers. The continuing source of life and energy that sustains my head and my heart. The thing that upholds my beliefs. My strengths. My weaknesses. My passions. In my muddled, mad mind, that is all I have. The concept of soulmates. The concepts of spirit guides. The concept of God as a deity and a messenger, reminding us that no matter what, we will never stop learning.
We become enlightened by realizing that we are never truly enlightened to a finite point. Knowledge grows not merely in mortal terms, but also beyond mortal terms. Uncertainty is beautiful because it reminds us that the beliefs we have are important if they carry us to the basic truth of love, and that they also carry us to greater heights of wisdom. The unattainable peak to a mountain is attainable once you realize you cannot reach it. Your life is what you make of it while the underlying current of agape runs your course.
Whew. My God. Talk about introspection: This is my heart staining your computer monitor red. And the funniest part is, I haven't quite accurately put down how I really feel. The unfathomable emotion you can't put simply in text. I don't really have specific recommendations, as a result. Instead, I will leave you with language: A piece of the stream of consciousness from William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury. Don't try to analyze it. Don't try to make sense of it. Simply let the words carry you to your own reservoir. See what you end up with when you put your shields down.
you are not thinking of finitude you are contemplating an apotheosis in which a temporary state of mind will become symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh it will not quite discard you will not even be dead and i temporary and he you cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this now were getting at it you seem to regard it merely as an experience that will whiten your hair overnight so to speak without altering your appearance at all you wont do it under these conditions it will be a gamble and the strange thing is that man who is conceived by accident and whose very breath is a fresh cast with dice already loaded against him will not face that final main which he knows before hand he has assuredly to face without essaying expedients ranging all the way from violence to petty chicanery that would not deceive a child someday in very disgust he risks everything on a single blind turn of a card no man ever does that under the first fury of despair or remorse or bereavement he does it only when he has realised that even the despair or remorse or bereavement is not particularly important to the dark diceman
Tonight, it's a moment in which I have everything to say, but I don't know how to say it. The short answer: I had a whirlwind of a phone conversation with my beautiful cousin, Lara. What about? Everything. Poetry, art (and the fact that to be an artist, you don't have to exude art, that's just cheesy and not authentic), teaching, experience, life, love, religion, faith, belief, certainty versus uncertainty, the concept of choice. Not cut and dry, but instead exposing a throbbing vein without any way of truly seeing what moves under the glass.
I am a writer who lives in uncertainty. But within that uncertainty is, shockingly, self-awareness. I will have my own reservations regarding my stability, my self-confidence, and my philosophy as an individual. I am human. It is normal. But has anyone wondered if true self-awareness is simply the ability to be something, and believe something, without any sort of...
I can't even say it. I can't put it in human words. Like I said, sometimes I have everything to say but just can't say it properly. Right now, as I type, my left hand keeps straying to the tiny class ring I wear on a chain around my neck. It's my maternal grandmother's high school ring, too small for my fingers. I wear it every day.
Today, a man I know died of pancreatic cancer. I lost my grandmother because of pancreatic cancer. I never met her. The ring is a tangible object. The emotion surrounding it is what carries me. Emotion carries me. The mind carries me. Words carry me. Language in its most basic raw form. No clear motive. No clear agenda. I cannot write when I say to myself, "I want people to get a specific message out of it." As a writer, that is not my job.
I celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday and am so thankful for so many people and so many things. Most of all, I am thankful for agape - unconditional love. Love without conditions or rules or disclaimers. The continuing source of life and energy that sustains my head and my heart. The thing that upholds my beliefs. My strengths. My weaknesses. My passions. In my muddled, mad mind, that is all I have. The concept of soulmates. The concepts of spirit guides. The concept of God as a deity and a messenger, reminding us that no matter what, we will never stop learning.
We become enlightened by realizing that we are never truly enlightened to a finite point. Knowledge grows not merely in mortal terms, but also beyond mortal terms. Uncertainty is beautiful because it reminds us that the beliefs we have are important if they carry us to the basic truth of love, and that they also carry us to greater heights of wisdom. The unattainable peak to a mountain is attainable once you realize you cannot reach it. Your life is what you make of it while the underlying current of agape runs your course.
Whew. My God. Talk about introspection: This is my heart staining your computer monitor red. And the funniest part is, I haven't quite accurately put down how I really feel. The unfathomable emotion you can't put simply in text. I don't really have specific recommendations, as a result. Instead, I will leave you with language: A piece of the stream of consciousness from William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury. Don't try to analyze it. Don't try to make sense of it. Simply let the words carry you to your own reservoir. See what you end up with when you put your shields down.
you are not thinking of finitude you are contemplating an apotheosis in which a temporary state of mind will become symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh it will not quite discard you will not even be dead and i temporary and he you cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this now were getting at it you seem to regard it merely as an experience that will whiten your hair overnight so to speak without altering your appearance at all you wont do it under these conditions it will be a gamble and the strange thing is that man who is conceived by accident and whose very breath is a fresh cast with dice already loaded against him will not face that final main which he knows before hand he has assuredly to face without essaying expedients ranging all the way from violence to petty chicanery that would not deceive a child someday in very disgust he risks everything on a single blind turn of a card no man ever does that under the first fury of despair or remorse or bereavement he does it only when he has realised that even the despair or remorse or bereavement is not particularly important to the dark diceman
Have a beautiful, remarkable, unfathomable weekend, everyone.
There is something strangely satisfying about the fact that this was posted at 11:11 <3
ReplyDelete