Wednesday, June 14, 2006


What if there were no narrative to the tale?
No point A nor B.
No plot points or story arcs.
Just moments.


It's a mortality moment. It's the air feeling extra crisp, extra real and the trees swaying from side to side, together like children smiling, dancing a chorus in a school play. And the verdant fur literally rolls out toward you in greeting. You can see it racing to you, its warmth is staggering and all you can do is form a double "OH!" with your eyebrows and your cheeks form brackets to enclose your smile in that moment, that one aside.


That's how you look when the moment comes.


Whenever the moment hits I try to hold the words which come because they always do.

And I never can. And I think that is the hunger to write. To frame that landscape of thought, that cascade of description, that torrent of...


that torment of not being able to find it, that I may express it. But knowing, burning, hurting almost with how fucking INTENSE that beauty behind everything is. So many wasteful words, for wasteful they are if used flippantly. Our language, these words, such power, such fucking power and so wasted and if only I could translate, relate, create. Instead my brain, and my hands my useless damn hands, remains opaque awaiting a diamond tipped bullet of inspiration, right between the eyes like Brando, like Colonel Kurtz says, just before he is murdered.

Sometimes I drink and write, and the words come thick and viscous. Sometimes I drink and write and the Toledo steel, the rapier fast slash, parry, cut comes too, but the substance, the depth, is it more or less when in a subconscious duel.

Now I drink tea and laugh at myself for being so serious.

But I never laugh at the beauty of things.

1 comment: