Hourglass: A Meeting of Minds
Picture me as tangent to the floor, or emerging from the crack in the opening of a door… a ray of Light that filters you to the core...
This corner spot we’re caught in is more than just a web. Though, indeed, I seem to have gotten tangled into the highlights of my own thread, looking around, groping about… Is there lack of an audience for what is about to be said? In these falling a-parts, it’s a heartbeat that I hear, not the ticking of a clock. Is it wrong to be such a Make-believer? Nothing-ness, more than any-Thing, remains dear—these gaps in between the space of Being—a real reminder of individual and collective contention and shame: an Emptiness without healing is the illusion of what we’re feeling.
Bowing in the wind is a burden that begs to be shared. Remembered for generations, like a Shaman acting out an Act over and over with full conceit, so that we too may be self-deceived. Willfully, by our own suspension of disbelief. Letter by letter, line after line, a graphing of tissue as if by design. A seemingly, self-indulgent sifting of time—while trampolining together in the back of our Mind. Yet such Character and muscle, plotting-along, at least to ourselves we seem to be building on!
What are these “meanings” searched for, so widely construed, tacked upon a myriad of references nobody knew, could ascertain, or God forbid assume?! A little bit of Heaven, an awful lot of Hell; this is precisely where I seem to have dropped or stuck my needle… in this haystack of idiotic things that have been done, written, and said. Dust relentlessly gathers over the frayed books and records of Libraries, virtual or visible; public and private; knowledge accumulating beyond understanding and reason. A whole closed woven gray tapestry of I-dolatry in our common human history. So open to contamination. Evolution? Revolution? Or just Pollution, really? A hodge-podge of phrases so very far from Conceptualization or crystallization. To imagine that one could possibly make some kind of Sense, rather than suffer with so much silent Incoherence!
Amidst all this internal chaos, a discernible longing for something… Something that characterizes itself as “Home.” Not a fanciful castle in the sand, nor mortar-n-stone, but an inside/outside Concreteness for an Abstract remembered but not quite… owned. Something to pass on… Was there not a down-payment, a mortgage, a loan? initialed with blood, cocooned for a moment, metamorphosing dynamically, eventually to be buried with bone? In duration a giving and receiving; then sitting by the fire just thinking, brows-knitting, fingers-weaving…
The form in the corner is taking a symmetrical shape… Like a dream catcher, I see us growing there, where we all have our fill of what is filtered from the Light and the Night—that fantastic spark. Idea! An intangible good that will crossover and elevate the sum—the perfect miracle—because from One nothing can be taken, and to Zero nothing can be added.
I’ve threaded the eye—we’re back to the beginning. It’s thoughts I’ll be leaving, neither orphaned, nor widowed, or dead, begging reflection on what’s said, or unsaid, free from entrapment or dread. Just to be. See how the journey goes, this Time around which we are spinning. Don’t see hands—duels/ seconds, minutia/ minutes, yours/ hours… relax. Unwind. This is our Now: the Eternal New Beginning.
A word, a twist of a phrase, allegory, metaphor, pure onomatopoeia… Caught up in the glare of these day dreamings you may be inclined to infer by vague intimation that this is the contemplation of a struggling writer pleading... To that end I suggest we would all be misconceived… unduly frustrated even. What realities could any of us be writing? No, no… it IS all in our head. Firmly convinced of this Fiction, I propose the story of a Reader instead. How can that be, since here I am—ink stained hand—not completely blind to faith and fact, seeing this “double-edged” tract? Your potence felt, but not yet visible. I will gladly explain. It'll take a little time, and Together we’ll have to turn the page…