Thoughts flow like water but there’s no cohesion, nothing to make a story or a poem or even a piece of anything out of. Nothing to stitch together to create a beginning or a middle or an ending. Just a river of words and things that appeal to me, catch me off guard, stick themselves to me like burrs, for later examination under harsher lights.
I explore the ideas of finding things that were lost or losing things I thought I had a firm grip on; thinking about the necessity of vulnerability and the circular nature of trust – how can I tell you my truth if I don’t trust you? How can I trust you if I don’t know you? How can I know you if we won’t make ourselves vulnerable to each other?
Thinking about secrets, and the secrets we reveal about ourselves when we don’t want to, don’t mean to. Secrets revealed in writing, in music, in art. Hidden pieces of ourselves made manifest in the things we create, revealing things we perhaps didn’t even know we were hiding. The words bubble up, threatening to spill over but self-preservation keeps them in check, fear meeting art head on. Sometimes fear wins. Sometimes the words win. Either way I lose, I am no longer myself, completely myself, once secrets are revealed or words are censored.
Watching seasons change, time pass, temperatures drop, days shorten. What was once green is exploding into fiery colors, burning out quickly to ash and gray and emptiness. And thinking about how I welcome the ash and the gray and the emptiness, how I don’t mind the chill that chases most people inside, how I prefer to see the sun filtered through lacy bare branches and how I prefer, sometimes, stark beauty to luscious, blossoming beauty.
How the blue of the October sky is the purest blue I can imagine, so pure and clear and perfect I want to cry even though that seems an incongruent reaction to beauty; how things you want and deserve and seemingly should have are not always given to you; how happiness is a choice, I believe wholly in this concept, even though sometimes hard it’s hard to choose happiness in the face of others’ choices that affect you. How a well-loved space is a form of self-love; how telling people to build a boat is not as effective, in the long run, as inspiring in people a thirst for the sea.
I think about process, plans, systems, and I think about how sometimes you just have to sit down and do it. I think about the value of sleep, the value of wakefulness and presence. I think about what it really means to be there for a person, how much support a person gets before you’re allowed to ask for some in return.
I recall, again, what it feels like to open up, be vulnerable, say what I’m thinking, say what I need and be met with silence.
I think about silence, how I want it when I don’t have it and I curse it when I do.
Maybe it’s just all about timing, about time moving faster for some than for others, leaving people who thought they were on a journey together apart, looking around, wondering what the hell happened.I think about the enchantment of small kindnesses, the romance of remembering, the small things that build a life; the small things that, when missing, create an insurmountable chasm.
I’ve been thinking a lot and not all of it makes sense, even to me, but it’s all relevant, somehow, to the words that course through my veins and the truth and the beauty and the black and the white and the lacy branches and the flickering firelight I try to make you feel and see and thirst for when I put pen to paper.