Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Of the Essence

Wondering out of words, I think the broom takes precedence in the wold of enlightenment. Dust to dust to damnable hatred. Red is scintillating, breathtaking in its violence. Bodies breaking on the wall, falling--catch them! Diamonds on the water, it's winter, the snow is falling, like suffocation on the frozen earth. Why am I making sense? Come the darkness, tunnel vision, I'm blind and not blind, I see only what is before me. Periphery is closed to me, perception limited by my will. Unveil the horizon! Tear the curtain down! I pause unwillingly, if I let my thoughts fly at will they would never stop and I could make no sense of them, gain nothing. And if I pause I lose them all and gain nothing. Every pause is another turn of the mind down another path. I'm lost, lost in thought--always vague, always metaphor, by me only half-understood. Why am I not making sense? What is the most essential thing? Who could answer that question? Is it the most essential question?
I will ask it...

Clarity. Take the broom, sweep the dust, enlighten me. This mind is a room, this room is covered with disuse. Uncultivated. I cough when I enter it. The broom must take precedence, then the activity. Use. Production for use. Use for productivity. Hatred burns against what is not done, comes violently, beating anger and guilt into my heart, breaking me against my fears, my hesitancy. I'm losing time-- slipping through my fingers, precious time flying eternally past-- a swift river, yet not eternal. Winter slows every movement; time seems irrelevant when everything sleeps-- but everything sleeps in a prison, dormant, kept until it breaks again free, and spring seems to rush the world again. Time never stops, but it seems to sleep in winter. It feels like a respite from constant falling behind. Winter is my season. I like the feeling of protection, security, peace, patience, constancy, rest, deep silence. Like a reverent reverie, and walking under the stars at night finds a thrice crystal reflection in the earth, in the eyes, and in the soul. On the other hand, clear days are more painful with nothing to absorb the brilliance but the eyes. Back to my room. There is a locked desk, and a key in the corner, hidden by a cobweb hung with dust. No windows here, only the backs of tapestries showing French windows leading out into gardens or the sun rising behind Roman columns. In the center of the floor is a small door with a rusted hinge. I know behind the door is brown darkness with a ladder that leads down, down into black darkness in another room with two windows that scarcely open without a thick multicolored filter to distort anything that might escape and shape it into a safer misrepresentation, for the protection of the deepest chamber. But other windows exist...what is generated in this room, coming up from the deepest chamber, is sent out through strange, dark passages between the walls, and words fall, squeezed through suffocation, from hesitant lips, and words fly, spurred by desperation, from eager fingers. It is fervor and fever. It is must and would. I am helpless and hungry. I am hollow. I am hopeful. I am Halle.

1 comment:

Kinma said...

You chose to see what you need to only to survive, and our ego will ignore the things that you don’t want to see. We all do it; we are all blind to our world in one way or another. Everyone lives in their “Box”, the only thing you can do is try to make your box bigger. Thoughts are wasted everyday, good ones, bad ones. That is a major downfall of human memory, the thoughts that really matter will comeback, and then you may be able to understand them completely.
As far as your mind as a dusty room, it only becomes dusty and stale from lack of activity, and I highly doubt from your writing that you have a dusty mind. Guilt, for not doing the things that you should do, is useless it just makes you feel worse about yourself. Here is a story about guilt I heard. (Sorry it’s long)

“These two monks are on a pilgrimage. The older monk is a well respected deeply spiritual person. He is a popular author and lecturer. The younger monk is studying under him. As it happened, the two monks came upon a wide river.

Just as they were about to start toward a bridge was a long distance up river, a wealthy women appeared who demanded of the older monk that he transport her across the river on his shoulders. The younger of the monks protested that the women had no right to ask this, but the other monk immediately agreed with a smile and carried her across. The monk managed to carry the women across the river and set her down gently on the far side. The women left without a word.

As the monks walked through some fields of tall grass the monk wondered why the other had carried such a disrespectful women across the river. As they strode along a wooded road his mind considered how the wealthy mistreat the poor. Coming upon a town where they would spend the night, the younger monk asked the older why he had carried the women across the stream. The other monk said simply "I carried the women across the stream, but you have been carrying her all day."

You have no need to carry your guilt all the time, use it as a lesson not as hindrance. And anger never gets anything good done, especially self-anger.
Time is the hardest thing to fight because you can’t. We are all running out of time. There is nothing you or I could do to keep that hourglass from running out; all we can do is enjoy the sand that we have.
In our minds all we see is what we want to see. The only way we know what is going on outside of our mind is to look though the distorted windows, the distortion is caused by what we have been exposed to. We distort the world that we see to protect ourselves from the world. The people that have not made their box too thick to escape; they do not feel the hunger that you and I feel.