Saturday, June 19, 2010

somewhere between demand and supply

Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the conviction that, if you step on the stones just right, if you take just this path, then you won't have to die - Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird

Its in the remarkable nature of imperfection, the shedding of reservation, the peek behind curtains we drew with our invisible sketchpens. It can only be felt when you embrace without caution, never understood, explained or theorized. Like life. Its like trying to draw an amoeba, you can never really get it right. Or wrong.

And we have this gift, the magic of feeling beyond what can be seen. The magic of being in the presence of profound confusion, of never understanding, and yet feeling euphoria winding its way around our feet. The magic of happening, beyond what can be measured, what is right and what is left behind.

It gave birth when a drained listless voice lifted and a song, quiet and uncanny, but true, so true, wafted up in the breeze and was everything it said it was and everything it never had to be. And left behind a sudden sweetness that clung, that the ears returned to, that the soul opened and wondered with.

The touches, the little curly borders on the edge, embroidering around the corners, little hints and shades of new moments, and tenacious ends. They capture the spine and wilt our resistance.

They were all virtues, they were all vice, wicked and wonderful and non-committal. There are concrete desks of course, but they are just here for our survival they don't care for embellishment, or resonance. When voices creep up in tune, and the little sadnesses, the little habits we puny humans have, of making a carnage where a soft cry is enough, will remain, and it will be terrible, it will be glorious, it will be everything we imagined, if not in uniform, if not in ten second images.

It will be in a lifetime, in moments added and multiplied, shared and sought. It will be opened out in little portals as we turn left, then right, without any sense of the impending, with only the senses that move within our body. It will be impossible, confounding, lossy, with messy afterbirth everywhere, it will be remarkably ugly and incandescently beautiful together, it will need a complete lack of understanding, and a few billion smiles to make it, but make it, it will.

If there be just one way to understand the pain in my head, it would be time. Time has passed, and the pain has come. I don't blame time precisely, I attribute time. I don't see the betterment that comes with time, only the pain. Today. Tomorrow will be different of course, there will be more time.

This constant self-contradiction, self-censoring, semi-immersive euthanasia, I must leave myself for a while before I return, renewed and filled again with hope and childlike wonder, filled again with the magic that gave birth to my self, streaming from my fingertips to finish it.

I need time, to complete the time I had. I need peace, to stop the war inside my head. What i need, is time, and love.


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