Name:
Location: St. Vincent & Grenadines

You were driving home in the dark on one glass-slippered heel, window sliced open and bathing in the snowliquor of the night air. We heard you singing, and couldn't bear to wake you.

08 August 2005

Late nights and freeway flyin' always makes me sing.

Going through old files. Found this from a few years ago:

The bottomless pit. Despair has a name. It wants you to know it. Knowing it means more than pronouncing its syllables. Knowing means drinking it in. The knowing wants you to drown, but you won’t drown. You’re too smart for that. Smartness, cleverness, has its virtue, although it isn’t what it pretends to be. Smartness is the little spark that keeps us from darkness. Once the spark flares, we need soul. We need the formula. We need to know how to live. We don’t need publicity, we need truth. Not publicity, not gospel, not the spreading of the Good News. We need truth. Truth doesn’t advertise. Truth has its own mechanism. We need to be patient and listen for the sound of the gears. When it’s time for us to move into a higher gear we need to listen for it. When the engine sounds impatience that’s when we need to push with all our love and throw the motor into a higher realm, the gas flooding in, the ratchets of the wheel clicking sooner, tighter, winding around the wheel of truth. Truth is not an answer. Truth is a motor that moves us. Truth does not have an interpretation. The silence of it is more than we can stand. We erect our castles of chatter, our cathedrals of dialogue, arguing with the light. We thirst. We fall down. We prostrate ourselves against our will. The light comes inexorably shining through the stained-glass windows we have created. We get angry. We get confused. The apocalypse is our own creation. We erect monuments to dirty gods, gods made of clay, and we sing their praises. The clay is all we are. We hunger for a higher ether. The air does not belong to us. We have mud in our throats. We clean out the ditches. We examine ourselves with a finely calibrated scalpel. No one else is of any assistance. This is lonely work we do alone beneath the green-tinted floodlights, adjusting readings, manipulating data. We are so hungry for a resolution. No one will talk to us. We won’t even talk to ourselves. The words are chaff pushed ahead of the threshing machine. We leave behind us our compost. Maybe our children...

But who can leave the future in the arms of children?

It’s been done, and done, and done.

We want to be something different. We want to be special.

We want to be the savior, and the saved.

We want to taste wild honey.

1 Comments:

Blogger Wesley said...

Very vivid and physical. Gives me the sense of being in an enclosed space, with all these processes taking place around me. Good stuff.

6:45 AM  

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