jacksmithiv
It strikes me that mosaic is the new work of my life. That once upon a time, I invented patterns for whole cloth, and only with words. Now it's all the news... found footage, little pieces pulled together into a story. But then with that one or two woven, hyper-manipulated threads.
I recently saw that the knob down at a local coffeeshop (well not a knob, but those sort of bars, doorhandles you could say) had been frozen in place. The door could still be locked, but otherwise, there would be no turning of the knob. It would be frozen in an open position, for pushing and pulling. It would never truly remain shut again. Not in the real way. Or the bad way of shutting out that I've become accustomed to.
The great quality of leadership has always been considered courage. I read today a quote from a great man, saying that cowardice is as equal a courage, in terms of value in its place in the human soul. But what does cowardice lend itself to? Preservation, really. And courage, then? Standing foolishly in the face of destruction?
Perhaps this could be closer to arriving at a reason for why great leaders are often consumed and destroyed.
I keep on going back into old annals, digging up more and more of my old treasures. They were all ideas. I used to scoff at people who were educated out of their great loves: educated out of their love of reading, of music, any passion at all, and formalized education could do it.
Now I'm starting to believe I've self-educated my way out of creativity and originality.
Let's go undo that...
The word quest is becoming like the musical note, in the way it gets its treatment from video games. The way MIDI turned the note into a register, a relativity, confined it and gave it its contemporary parameters, so quest has taken on a name, a boundary, with objective and reward. And who has to reclaim it? Shining knights, or writers of fairy tales?
There's a certain tug between two impulses of mine. Two things calling in two directions. One is to put on the heavy bass, to alow a synth to flow over. The other is to let the guitars pluck, to slide the bar on the iPhone, to let a love song teach me all over again how to be. Only trouble there is I've got this sad poem to write, see? I can't remember how to love too quick. I'll lose focus.
Base, baseness, bastardy, base... base. King Lear, that's where that's from. The Bastard Son, an old archetype. A sort of villain, a servant of Bacchic nature who no longer fits into a modern world. Us moderns have no place for all that, bastard animals. Our families are clean, and no child is illegitimate. Now where do we suppose would that leave Edmund?
Recently I've come to examine, personally, the impact of electrifying, primal, and often violent sex life on an authentic romance. To reconcile the idea of wanting to destroy, or love by destroying, tearing, rending, as any kind of love at all.
Drifting in happens as well. That's what I use this exercise as. A coming out from the ocean of busy thought, of a feeling-nothing bustle of moment to moment into the examined curiosity and creativity of concentrated ability. A delicate skimming of the bottom of my boat, the wet sand sifting, and a sudden halt.
There's a certain way in which delicate other inferences of color are more important to me. The primaries wear on me so. Pastels are a cast of color that is more natural. Does that mean more expressive. I'm starting to become unsure.
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writing since 2010 · 35 entries · 35 days shown up
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greatloveeyesmomentmythologyoftenthunderremembercertainmusclepiecequesttruthcomingyoungspider