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| december 2006 |
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| two | 1:38am friday, 29th december |
a hush of awe at the unspeakable fire, my outer senses are ablaze, still
within me untouchable is my smallest soul, far and away the closest thing
there is purpose here that scavenges below dawn, taller than known space
(i have seen such a light as to wither all darkness in singlest epiphany)
my mind stretches past the starlight depths in the contemplation of night
and there is a flicker of remembrance above the heights of all wind
i suddenly breathe, like an angel blinked into existence out of nothing
(i have been haunted by that dream, you know the one, where you...)
for i am nowhere but in the presence of that which burns me into being
i am inside a perception of the impossible, and see myself believing
now, as time stands on edge: hearken to the silent call of light: let go
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| Merry Christmas! | 2:06am monday, 25th december |
Thou hast not made, or taught me, Lord, to care
For times and seasons — but this one glad day
Is the blue sapphire clasping all the lights
That flash in the girdle of the year so fair
When thou wast born a man — because alway
Thou wast and art a man through all the flights
Of thought, and time, and thousandfold creation's play.
 – George Macdonald
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| Apocrypha | 12:28am thursday, 21st december |
There are still times, they come and go, when I half expect the world to turn inside out, reveal its hidden, horrible face. Then the unutterable truth would be revealed, and I would be shown to myself and the world in the light of all darkness: yes, even these days, I still half think that this might just happen, almost peeking out from behind the veil of ordinary life. I regain my senses, though, always, never letting myself believe it all the way — not even close to it, really — the feeling passes like a whim of the wind. There will always be perhaps things that reason will not penetrate, at least, not to their full depths, always a ghost somewhere in the machine, a bit of beast in the most civilized countenances. I imagine this little wildness in the plain face of the universe does me some good, somewhere. Maybe just as a reminder that things are not always as they seem, and that one’s whole life might turn on the thinnest dime.
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| Loneliness | 12:20am sunday, 17th december |
Words are all I have with which to reach and grasp the loneliness. I am in a sea of people, and no one knows me, and perhaps it is in myself that I wish not to be known. I desire not the company of fools, yet I know myself to be a fool; I cannot find the one whom I know is out there, for I wish not to venture from my seat. What is there to say? Perhaps it is mine to be alone for the whole of life, and the Lord would make of it a precious thing — but that is of little solace in the meanwhile. Hope sometimes scatters, not to be gathered by the hands that you possess, and your faith was never strong to begin with: this is where you give up, and that magic Hollywood moment happens. Or not. You know, since you never believed in it anyhow, for all that you spoke of it: the magic: these words that are all you have are no spell, after all.
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| Blessings | 3:35am wednesday, 13th december |
I have seen things go wrong, and perhaps it was a blessing. For now, when things align, when things smoothly run their course, it is to me the subject of amazement. And these who have never had it so that the work could not be done, that water would not run, nor the gears grind without turning — these for whom the world has always been aright: they do not see with eyes that spot the remarkable in the everyday happenstances. For I have seen the shadow of a world that never was, where one cannot carry without it all spilling, where machines cannot roll the smallest length without malfunction, where life is horribly misshapen and inexplicably halted. Be ye thankful, in true spirit, for the smallest boredoms, therefore: for such times of the slowest functioning are all miracles. Blessed is he who can see what he has without it have been taken away.
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| one | 12:49am friday, 8th december |
my dreams drink from the endless stream of whispers
flowing from the milky starlight night has spilled from her dark breast
i hear the liquid darkness pools where dip the roots of all knowledge
(all waters reflect infinity, however much they resemble your face)
the darkness shall evaporate from the shoulder of dawn
like a soldier over a hill, another day will rise and subside
my whisper drops into eternity, to be dreamed by someone else
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| Korea Redux | 3:38am monday, 4th december |
Korea is still close to me. I can still visualize some of the streets where I used to walk; I can almost smell it. There is something to be said about the land in which you were born, as if some magic existed between you and it, some sort of sacred bond which only those such as you are privy to. I took a picture of the approach to my aunt’s house, a beautiful autumn day, and I have it to gaze into sometimes, to recall some small bit of my experience there. New York, I will still say it, is the greatest city in the world, but just like I know that though da Vinci was a better painter, van Gogh is still my favorite — Seoul houses a fragment of my soul, and always probably shall. I am still figuring out just what it was that I should say was the good thing that happened to me last I was there, for something good always seems to whenever I visit; but perhaps I cannot put my finger on it because there was so much that transpired, so much life I lived. I do not know when I will return, perhaps much later than now — but something tells me that was not my last hurrah there. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
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| Again? | 2:46am friday, 1st december |
Where have I seen this before? A page in my imaginary history swats open, and I run my mind’s eye down the lines of worn text. There was love, somewhere, and I must say of myself that I have never been completely without it, however much I complained that I was stranded. But the lines of that face, the situational physics of this whole phenomenon, the interplay of light and shadow (like the world were specifically trying to tell me something of the nature of what we see, and what sees us): something in me recognizes something of the eternal bit of us that we have on loan from God. And then I look away for a second, and look back, and there is nothing out of the ordinary about anything here. Or perhaps that is the trick? To notice what we don’t notice, because we see it all the time, what memory stubbornly will not admit into its doors….
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