I'll warn you now, some of this is disturbing. It might change your perspective on me, so think hard before you continue. I thought hard before I posted this, and to be honest, I'm still a bit nervous about it. It makes me feel vulnerable...and I hate that feeling.
I'll admit, posting things from the past (which themselves are ruminations on a past) is maudlin at best, egocentric to be sure, and one might argue a bit neurotic. All true, I'll cop to it lest I again play the hypocrite. But enough of the posturing preamble...
...I was straightening out my studio (aka "the shop") and found myself looking through boxes of papers from my old Howard Space Studio from 2000. In it I found some "poems" I'd written during a very difficult period. I was wrestling with myself, my past, the stuff I'd never dealt with (does everyone have shit like that?). In those days I spent a lot of time on a couch (if you know what I mean), and even more time secluded in a dark studio (which, by the way, if it weren't for several very special people, I doubt if I'd ever had emerged) drawing and painting strange little things which I wouldn't show anyone. In part because things like the following were where my mind was at te time...
Origins
Somewhere on the boundaries of waking and slumber
where stars are anything from dust to fishes
there lived a cast of bodies who knew more than they could say.
And each lived wholly separate from the others
who lived independently, and yet shared in the functions which bound them
deep within (and sometimes without) the body.
And though their paths were intricate,
their plans and actions possessed of energies unlimited,
their endeavors left the system stagnant and atrophied.
For when one would travel forward,
casting thoughts and goals ahead and charging past the crest of it,
somewhere else dark deeds retarded the purity of anything ever done.
And this was the origin of where they had begun,
in the dark deeds and desperation of another being's sickness
breathed down the throat, forcibly, of a small child.
It stunk of decay, of rot and infection,
and it crawled inside and fed on the pink flesh of youth and innocence,
and laughed as it cut the bonds which bound the child to love.
And in so stinking (though no one seemed to smell it)
the sickness spoke to everyone and warned them away,
and wide berths were what the child knew from then on.
But the breath of sickness returned to speak and play,
for even illness needs companions,
and together purged the pink of possibilities forever.
It was there, in the boundaries of waking and slumber
that the first of them were launched,
at the advice of the voice in the stairwell.
...So yeah. There's that.
So you might ask why I would share that. Simple; the only way to rid yourself of darkness, is to shed some light on it.
I read this today too..."The singular burden of solitude spares no one, not even great minds". It's interesting because I don't think of solitude as a burden. Loneliness yes, but not solitude. Solitude seems peaceful, loneliness feels...desolate.
I'll admit, posting things from the past (which themselves are ruminations on a past) is maudlin at best, egocentric to be sure, and one might argue a bit neurotic. All true, I'll cop to it lest I again play the hypocrite. But enough of the posturing preamble...
...I was straightening out my studio (aka "the shop") and found myself looking through boxes of papers from my old Howard Space Studio from 2000. In it I found some "poems" I'd written during a very difficult period. I was wrestling with myself, my past, the stuff I'd never dealt with (does everyone have shit like that?). In those days I spent a lot of time on a couch (if you know what I mean), and even more time secluded in a dark studio (which, by the way, if it weren't for several very special people, I doubt if I'd ever had emerged) drawing and painting strange little things which I wouldn't show anyone. In part because things like the following were where my mind was at te time...
Origins
Somewhere on the boundaries of waking and slumber
where stars are anything from dust to fishes
there lived a cast of bodies who knew more than they could say.
And each lived wholly separate from the others
who lived independently, and yet shared in the functions which bound them
deep within (and sometimes without) the body.
And though their paths were intricate,
their plans and actions possessed of energies unlimited,
their endeavors left the system stagnant and atrophied.
For when one would travel forward,
casting thoughts and goals ahead and charging past the crest of it,
somewhere else dark deeds retarded the purity of anything ever done.
And this was the origin of where they had begun,
in the dark deeds and desperation of another being's sickness
breathed down the throat, forcibly, of a small child.
It stunk of decay, of rot and infection,
and it crawled inside and fed on the pink flesh of youth and innocence,
and laughed as it cut the bonds which bound the child to love.
And in so stinking (though no one seemed to smell it)
the sickness spoke to everyone and warned them away,
and wide berths were what the child knew from then on.
But the breath of sickness returned to speak and play,
for even illness needs companions,
and together purged the pink of possibilities forever.
It was there, in the boundaries of waking and slumber
that the first of them were launched,
at the advice of the voice in the stairwell.
...So yeah. There's that.
So you might ask why I would share that. Simple; the only way to rid yourself of darkness, is to shed some light on it.
I read this today too..."The singular burden of solitude spares no one, not even great minds". It's interesting because I don't think of solitude as a burden. Loneliness yes, but not solitude. Solitude seems peaceful, loneliness feels...desolate.
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