Beyond The Pale

On Solitude, An Image of a Mind at Rest

To those of you who read my blog regularly, I owe an apology for the recent spate of poetry. I get the poetry bug like many people get the flu, which my roommate is currently fighting, and I promise that as long as I stay away from any mood regulating drugs or strong drink, it will pass quickly, allowing me to get back to my slow-history of life as a weird kid in a weird family, leaving nothing, perhaps, besides a dark stain on the sheets from where I’ve had to sweat out the built up toxins of life. Alas.

I’ve been hearing my voice ever so clearly for the last couple of days, and I’ve come to the most narcissistic of realizations: I’m my own muse in the dark. When I divorce myself from all the other voices, from Stephenson and Foster, from Arrenofsky, from Plato, from Blue October and Snow Patrol, I begin to feel the tide of other’s words receding from the shore of my mind, and I leave my notebook up on the dunes and creep down along the beach to pick through the detritus, the flotsam and jetsam, the seaweed, the slowly suffocating sea urchins to see what treasures those waves of voice have left in the sand of my mind. But this tide plain is long and flat, like the fields surrounding Mont Saint Michelle, and as I find myself alone on this quickly drying desert, I’m presented with a decision. I can chase the retreating tide, looking for ever more precious jewels cast up from the depths of time, or I can turn to stare up into the mountains and listen, for the first time in weeks, to the sound of the wind and the birds in the trees.

I turn inward and begin picking my way back toward my leather bound journal, its pages turning in the wind, gathering tiny quarts and obsidian sand bits in its binding, which will cause me all kinds of trouble making ink stick to page, but will also give the book a heft that I will choose to think of as character, and I begin to hear a different movement of water, not the pounding of wave after wave of great thinkers on my mind, but the trickling of my own thought coming down in small rivulets from the mountains. These are the streams that have been flowing unheard, untasted all along. It’s a sound that I must chase with quiet serenity lest it be lost in the racket.

I pick up my journal in passing and kick off my sandals, seeking this sound of my thinking like I seek the feeling of dry sand between my toes until I find myself sanding in the cold water of the stream of internal monologue, and I dip my hands into the water, think better of such an approach and fall on my knees, burying my face, eyes open in the liquid crystal. I taste such sweetness. Taste my own thoughts, belonging to no other. Rising from this cleansing, this refreshing, I wade to the bank where the roots of a Beech tree have been eroded around to provide the perfect hammock seat, and I open my journal, blowing dust from a blank page.

I uncap my pen and begin to write.


November 1, 2009 - Posted by | Uncategorized

1 Comment »

  1. Prose delicacies, word lace. I see you weaving language like magic, especially in paragraph three. And you can’t fool me–your writing tool isn’t a pen; it’s a very fine needle used for sewing.

    Alone with your own voice, and how lovely that is. Surely, outside voices have provided the atoms for our own. Some anti-life disciples take this to mean they have no voice of their own; leave them in their disapperance. From the emergence and coherence of atoms, you have a voice. That peaceful moment of expansion when your voice becomes real enough to be your own and you let all others fall away, oh, it’s a beautiful and serene and powerful change. The composite circle becomes a burning spherical star of the individual. The Real Individual. Lovely and beautiful, with a single core, and burning.

    Comment by wordorgy | November 30, 2009 | Reply

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