A nod to years past, this is likely to be a bit of a ramble. Those of you who know what that means likely will smile, while the rest puzzle and wonder (at least briefly) what that means. Succinctly, it means I’m writing “real time”; no thinking, no theme, no plans for “what I want to say”, just letting it slip out like raindrops over the edge of the gutter (hah, I suppose there could be a number of jokes in that).
I’d usually ramble a bit about what’s happening in life, but La Brea tells me that’s not ready yet and we’ve seen what trying to push at it manages, so thank you, but no thanks. Which leaves me a tad stumped on why I feel the urge to do this, but then, that’s rather the point of the ramble – to have no real point.
I am thinking suddenly of The Red Book. Actually, I’m thinking I really need to get a soft-cover version as I’m not willing to sully the first edition hard back I indulged in when it released. There have been a few moments here and there wherein I’ve allowed myself to carefully, wonderingly flip through its pages. The illuminations, the drawings, the themes and memes and archetypes are just… well, I surely cannot do them justice in words just yet. I’m still trying to settle my mind in relation to the things I find in that book. It’s a thinky thing, it is. Likely not something I can manage to summarize and certainly not in the middle of a ramble. So there’s the period and I’ll be moving on…
I’m thinking about (J.) and finding myself more than a little surprised at how the things I expected would surface and seek to set fingers into it all has not done so. This is decidedly new and refreshing. It is also a tad frightening. What has changed? I feel comfortable in a way I never before have and I can’t decide if it’s “good” or “bad”, but I have the sense that even this is positive. Heh. It’s all a jumble and I’m happy for it. Really happy; like liberated happy. I redact myself; this is definitely a positive thing, even if I don’t understand the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of it just yet.
I briefly ponder (I.) and the warm bloom of friendship and smile again. I don’t even know the name of the flowering tree I gifted to him the other day. I realize it was a historical gift. Actually, it was the last flower on the grave, given instead to something alive and healthy. Progress, indeed. In fact, I don’t even need to call it progress anymore… it’s more like journey’s end. I find it wonderfully comforting to discover that journey’s end is journey’s beginning. I’ve “known” it all along and yet, I never knew it until just now. Isn’t life hilarious?
The whole honoring privacy thing becomes difficult with all the (S) and (J) and (R)’s I know. I’m chuckling for it because I was thinking about (J.2?). Hah. How the hell do I do this? Why does it matter the distinction? Hrm. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it never did. Hmmmmmm. The thought of (J.) has already flitted away and I suppose that just confirms the silliness of the reference point. Letting it go.
I keep thinking/feeling as if I want to extemporaneously rhapsodize, but when I reach for it, it’s not there. Yet. I’m finding the boundary between inspired creativity and motivated creativity. It seems to rest in what I’d call “fullness of being”. There are times when I’m so full of life that I’ll …. I don’t know… pop? die? faint? if I don’t write and then, there are times like this, when I can write about everything and anything except the one thing about which I wish I could write. Not quite writer’s block. More like…. writer’s hiccup; a flurry of interest without energy, a flutter of the mental muscle that pushes out nothing but a puff of air. Heh. Oh well. Soon, I’m sure.
I don’t want to write about it. That’s the bald truth. I want to experience it. I want to savor it again and say nothing; be all Mona Lisa smiles and soft glow and fuck the world, let them wonder. I’d call it selfish, but it hasn’t that much thought or motivation.
The way he has looked at me makes me cry to remember it. I’ve been waiting for that look all my life. Even if it’s just for now, it’s still enough to be enough. Meh. Hard to express. Doesn’t fit into words. Fits nicely into tears, though; honor of beauty unexpected and the age-old homage that speaks better than sounds ever could.
I think of it in this moment like a rain barrel. It will be a while before there’s enough to splash over the rim. But that’s ok, because I’m enjoying the sound of the drops and trilling splashes hitting the bottom. I like the sound of the echo. I suppose I could say it’s a hollow sound, but all I hear is increase toward fullness; tonal crescendo too quiet for anyone but me to hear; a secret serenade of nourishment on dry boards. Delightful.
This reminds me of Wabi-Sabi in a way. Maybe it’s just aprophenia. Who knows? Who cares? Heh. The sorrowful beauty of life as it is; all that lovely growth in the middle of dirt and decay. It’s a contrast that gains on both sides for losing to each. I find comfort in the sense that paradox remains the herald of Truth. What a soulful, weighty thing! Oh tug, damn you. I love it.
He stands stone-still when he kisses me. It’s like he’s nothing but lips and all that he can ever know is found through them. It feels like standing in a patch of sunlight with eyes closed and the flow and glow not caring for it, just streaming and beaming right on and reminding you that it doesn’t matter; the sun doesn’t shine because you want it to, it shines because that what it does.
Blurp. Oh yeah, there’s a bit of bubbling. Little, teasing pops and splortches. I’ll not be rushing this, but I sure will revel in it.