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| december 2002 |
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| Fantasy | 12:36am tuesday, 31st december |
I have wandered, now, for an eternity and a day.
There is nothing but this wilderness, nowhere that I could call home.
I have circled the world again, again; lived this life before.
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| Sweet Nothings | 12:04am monday, 30th december |
A moment leaves no ashes.
A dream leaves no footprints.
A word leaves no taste.
A glance leaves no signature.
A raindrop leaves no identity.
A breeze leaves no motive.
A motion leaves no copy.
A vision leaves no dust.
A destiny leaves no thirst.
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| Two Roads | 2:16am saturday, 28th december |
I think sometimes I will take the road more traveled by, and I think not every digression from the beaten path makes all the difference. The less traveled path is more rough hewn and takes more energy to forage through, and sometimes I am tired. No, not every time, but now and then, I would to walk where many have gone before me, and the way is flatter. The path from which the thorny bushes have all been discovered and uprooted, a path I need not make myself through the undiscovered wilderness. I will take comfort in a road that has proven trusted and true for more than a few.
Like I say, not every time, for there are paths in one's life where you must make your own way in the world, and to escape all such adventure is a boring life, indeed. But I say, too, that the road more traveled by can give a certain satisfaction to go upon — or else it would not be so traveled, after all. I come to two roads many times within the wood of my walking, and some divergings I take the road more traveled by — and the difference? I believe there is something to be said about ordinary dreams, at times. That is difference enough, I think: ordinary miracles will oft suffice the day.
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| Now | 12:04am friday, 27th december |
A whisper says more than a scream.
A longing is realer than dream.
Be the men or women that ye have to be.
A rhythm is more than a beat.
A poem, a burning soul's heat.
Maketh ye some beauty, and ye live, indeed.
Desire to live a life long.
Yet sing as one sings his last song.
Sometimes ye are just as great as ye believe.
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| Christmas | 1:52am wednesday, 25th december |
One day to forget everything. One day to remember everything. It is a birthday of a special one, who was not truly born on this day. It doesn't seem to matter that much, though, that this day was created by men — it has become larger than they could have foreseen, I think. The spirit of the season! Goodwill towards all, and a time of giving that overcomes us every one! It is, I believe, that we celebrate it at all: "Joy to the world! The Lord is come; let earth receive her King!" Somehow, for whatever else it may mean to you or me, it is a sense of something greater than our own little worlds... and perhaps, that is all that counts.
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| The Question | 12:35am tuesday, 24th december |
What is the meaning of life? I think I get the question, but do I really, now? Does anyone truly know what that question means? Perhaps no: so, thus in its vague enigma does the question remain unanswered. The gut understands, but not the head — and not the heart. The gut understands, so we keep asking it. If the head understood, we might take the question more seriously, and not dismiss it out of hand, that it is unanswerable. If the heart understood, perhaps billions of prayers would reach Heaven asking for its answer, and surely one of these would hit the mark. As it is, we ask it once or twice every once in a while, and there is only silence in response.
What is the meaning of life? Maybe it is unanswerable, after all, that maybe mine would be a different answer to the question than yours. Maybe. But my gut, which knows the question, tells me there is a universal answer somewhere. Every philosopher (and poet) dreams of being the one to solve this ultimate what. This ultimate why. Who knows? I think I will keep asking: maybe there is a prize for the billionth customer of the Question, and that maybe it is simply a matter of the right combination of gut, mind, and heart that will unlock this treasure of treasures. The secret of the universe, to open (finally) to someone. Maybe me. Maybe you.
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| Imagining | 12:43am monday, 23rd december |
I am a rain that falls forever from the sky. One blink
and I become a billion stars lit across the black night. One blink
and I am tinier than a mouse, but with infinite dreams.
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| Small Destinies | 12:39am saturday, 21st december |
Destiny, I think, has plans for us all. The thing is, I don't think it is for all of us to fork lightning, so to speak. Sometimes, destiny (like God) is in the little things. Sometimes destiny is the normal course of events in a life of ordinary things, of small dreams that can't help but come true. And I think the heroes of Heaven are not like those whom we praise on earth; I believe that there shall be many that will be honored in those halls whom we gave not a second glance to in life. Thus, destiny will work quietly — mysteriously — for some of us, not revealing that some of these ordinary things we do reverberate in eternity, to be shown only when we come to final rest. Then, glory will come for some of us for our part in simple kindnesses, tiny miracles.
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| Dreams, Revisited | 12:02am friday, 20th december |
My dreams fill me at once with horror and hope, with tragedy and faith, and I cannot tell which is the strongest of these.
My dreams cast a shadow longer than the world; my dreams are thinner, too, than a shadow's thickness.
My dreams sometimes dream me, rather than I them, as if something within me can guide me better than my own intention.
My dreams vanish before I can collect enough evidence that they actually were what they were.
My dreams are an ether within which I float, no matter how much the world has weighed me down in my waking life.
My dreams I cannot tell where they come from, but I imagine that it is the same place from where light is born.
My dreams have eyes as deep as love, the color of forever.
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| Pax Psychotica | 12:01am thursday, 19th december |
I'm not sure when I came up with the following little thing, whether it was when I was quite younger, or during my madness, but here:
This version of the theme I created just recently, but it was has been recurring thing ever since my early schizophrenia. You have to admit, the "peace sign" does look remarkably like a bird's footprint (though circled), so why not a dove's?
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| Moment Naught | 2:09am tuesday, 17th december |
Time does fade a dreamer's wish,
Till nothing but an itch exists:
Life it loads desire's wings,
Till they forget of what they sing.
Fate it breathes a distant day
That waits in quiet for its say:
Sometimes thunder, sometimes breeze,
To many notes its tune is keyed.
Desire reaches moment naught,
When man he hears the song fate wrought:
Most have hands that dreams slip through:
Though wingèd, dreams take flight in few.
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| Recollection 7 | 2:17am monday, 16th december |
Underachiever. That was what I was all through growing up, I think. I was gifted with a mind, but I used it not; those who knew of me in high school even spread that around about me — smart, but doesn't do anything with it. The madness (at least in some sense) was a blessing on that regard. No, I would rather not have experienced it, that I had found my way in some other wise, but really: the madness was God's way of telling me, this is what you can do with a mind such as yours, Stand. Concepts abstracted beyond words, battles between ultimate good and pure evil, planes of existence only hinted at in the mystical works of the ages, adventures with angels and gods and demons — since I did not seize the day, the day seized me. My life began in the madness.
Did I even have dreams back then, before my mind went splat? I recall wanting to "save the world" in some vague way, and I think it went no farther than that: I dreamed of being some messianic power, something that the drugs I was doing had some part in conceiving. What incredible arrogance I had. The madness kicked that "dream" right out of me. All I wanted, after the years within the chaos of a mind psychotic, was that all of it to go away, that I be sane and calm and quiet. I learned of wanting simple things, of desiring a simple life. It is perhaps the saddest thing about me that such extreme measures had to be taken by my Creator for me to learn some very basic lessons of life. To dream real dreams, and not some grand whim to be a savior to the world.
I am driven by my dreams, these days. I feel I have wasted much time: that my madness has taken many hours in which I should have been in the act of achieving. But perhaps they were not wasted, those years; perhaps it was a journey I had to make, that in those fires my dreams were forged, and in those trials a will to achieve them was earned.
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| Meaning | 12:48am saturday, 14th december |
What is meaning? Could it merely be information? That which means something to you carries with it — projects — a certain information to you. That which means nothing to you holds no such information, your recognition of it draws a blank in your heart and head. I think that must be it. At the core of that which has sentimental value is the history of it, and that is information. (And, in fact, much meaning in life has to do with a thing's history in relation to a person, or a person's to another.) Yes. This is to go with my previous theory that beauty is simplicity, which I still hold to be true. That which carries no information carries no meaning. In the tell is there meaning — that which tells you something means something to you, and I think that it is simply that....
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| Ethereal | 12:35am friday, 13th december |
I wandered past the cemetery trees in my dreaming....
I lit a match and set fire to Death, but he just smiled at me:
it was not my place to make Death die, not even in dreaming.
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| Peace Thought | 12:10am thursday, 12th december |
Peace. That's a fascinating word. It's like the good kind of nothing — nothing blowing up in your face, no fighting, nothing out of the ordinary. And yes, it has been our blessing that peace is what we consider the ordinary, that war is the aberration. Not so with everyone around this globe of ours, but in basically your English speaking countries (with some exceptions in time and space, I'll grant you), peace is what we're used to. Nothing. We're used to the nothing, the quiet, the beauty of the still. With the greatest award in the world being the Nobel: there is no Nobel Prize for war, only peace. Hm. I think this is the way it should be. With peace meaning life — and war spelling death — it is, after all, more work to live for a cause than to die for one, n'est-ce pas?
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| Remember Me | 1:01am tuesday, 10th december |
Remember me when the sky falls down, and you are walking around stepping on broken clouds, stepping on crushed stars.
Remember me when your dream comes true, and you just walk around in a perpetual state of astonishment, disbelieving just anything that you see.
Remember me when you are naked before your God, whose eyes pierce into the most secret of your hearts, and remember that I told you it was going to happen that way.
Remember me when you meet your one true love — and tell me that I was wrong, that it can be that good, after all.
Remember me when you lose the thing most precious to you, and also when you discover some other thing that turns out to be worth more.
Remember me when life is sweet, and you can think of nothing else; remember me when life is bitter, and you can think of nothing else.
Remember me when death knocks on your door, and you remember everything except why.
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| Quiet, My Soul | 2:13am monday, 9th december |
Quiet, my soul. Dreams shall
take flight at unknown moments,
carrying you aloft when you
least expect. You will never be
ready enough, then, when the
fantastic appears before you.
I think you cannot prepare for it:
do not sit and wait, for nothing
comes to those who expect to be
surprised. Go about living life,
do what you need to do to survive;
prepare for the ordinary, for that
may indeed be all that will be.
Fools will say, "I am special,"
but the wise man considers it
not of his own hand when destiny
calls him. Be of good heart, and
say to yourself when you glimpse
the shadow of a dream cast
upon your day: "Quiet, my soul."
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| Alone | 12:07am saturday, 7th december |
Alone. There is something to be said about being alone, and I mean not feeling most lonely when in a crowd. I mean solitude, when there is nothing but you and an inanimate world. Back before my last episode, I lived alone, spent much time in solitude, nothing between me and the world except perhaps a couple cathode ray tubes. Loneliness came and went, I recall, but being one of one was more than that. A lot of thought was involved. When I was alone, there was many a time when I was lost in thinking, and I mean not in a madness imagination, but an intense cogitation dealing with one or more dreams I was pursuing. I was alone with purpose, at times a high, at times a low — but all with meaning.
I have something like it, now, having a room where I have all the creature comforts (two computers, a TV with digital cable, a boom box, and a bookshelf full of books), but it's not the same. I am always aware of what is outside my door, the people I live with and their activities. I miss the quiet, the sense that no one else wanders your space — that it is just me and the world, and there is nothing but me and the quest that is my life. Maybe I just have not adjusted to the idea of many, that I have been too used to the idea of one. But in the alone, there was much soliloquy; even if I never spoke it, there was a poetry in my living I that I now miss. Perhaps I will find new art in the many, but for now, I will miss this one being one.
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| That Dream? | 12:15am friday, 6th december |
What was that dream? I imagine it was wonderful, that I never wished to leave it, but now the thought of it only teases me. There is something about forgetting dreams — it is as if there is something important, something urgent that we are losing when they slip out of mind's reach. I couldn't say for certain, though, if I remembered any of those gone dreams, that it would prove anything more than a fancy. That's always the way, isn't it? It's like being a child again, if only briefly, when some little thing means the world itself. When we look back on it, we think, "Why, exactly, did I care so much about that?" Hm. I think I will let that dream go, that is right outside the edge of my memory. I will dream something else, and perhaps that will be one to stay — something to remember.
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| Doomsday Clock | 5:59am wednesday, 4th december |
This is the doomsday clock that never rang:
I don't know for how long or how many times back when I stared at this. This is the doomsday clock stuck in time, never to ring the final hour when all the world would end, a relic of the generations that come.... My, does this bring back memories. I recently reacquired an Escher book (yes, it's an Escher, if you couldn't tell) that I had back during that first, greater madness, that I had lost. I thought I'd share this with you.
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| Consider | 1:17am tuesday, 3rd december |
I wonder of the mystery of ordinary things:
how did God think of it? I can barely put down these words and He —
in every moment He has hidden a thousand miracles!
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| Burn | 2:33am monday, 2nd december |
There are times I think I am burned out on the world. Like I have seen, heard, felt too much, and nothing can affect me anymore. It's sort of how candy stops tasting so good when you turn sixteen or so. "Jaded," I think, is the term for it, and perhaps it happens to the best of us. What to do, then, when nothing in the whole of Earth can tantalize us anymore? What to do when you are tired of sensing anything and everything? The realization — is it perhaps a crossroads, one of the few in this lifetime? Perhaps it is thus: become bitter, be dissatisfied with just everything; or trust in something higher, that there could be purpose in even this.
What can I learn from it all? That taste tastes not so good, that hearing is no longer a tingle, that eye has seen all the colors it ever will? I think perhaps it is time to make something of it, now that the world is not new anymore — make something new. Create. Perhaps that is it: if you cannot any more find anything strange and wonderful, see if you know the things you think you know well enough to wield them in an attack on the stodge of life. Creation, I have written before, is a taste of the infinite. And I think that all roads must lead to infinity, in one way or another — if only that you give up, and never have the chance again.
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