A writing moment… Series?

So as to not piss away ALL the precious time I’ve been given, I decided to do some writing today. Beneath a very cold air vent, in the midst of jazz and Frank, sipping lattes, I actually pound out some paragraphs that might actually mean something. I’ve thought of publishing the serial here… would you like to hear it? How about I start with this…

* * * * * * *

“We are all varsity liars,” she said. Cigarette smoke drifted in mighty clouds around the bar room. Drag. Puff.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” she drawled, cutting long and hard into the deep pause.

He laughed. “What makes you think so?”

She paused for more dramatic effect. “Because even we believe it.”

“You believe it,” he whispered, “I choose not to.”

“Then you,” she said, “are a fool. The only way out is to go all the way through.”

Whisper. Crack. Drag. Puff.

“Really?” He said it once more, for theatrical restatement.

The crystal orb in her other hand glinted in the arctic lighting of the austere lounge. He wondered why it looked so clear and new, not even a chip.

His hand clasped empty air above the orb. Crystal crash against the dusty floor boards.

Oh, how the world changed.

Just decided to write the ambient jam

in The Inward Spiral of Another

Lanky. Lean. His face is shadow and light. He’s darkness turned inside out. In the bewilderment of his soul, he finds no cracks, no crevices for anything to escape. He questions the nature of sound and of his own breath. It’s no wonder he can’t find the place within himself where the connection resides. He’s lost the floor plan. The electrician has left the building and left it to die in its own ashes. So he thinks. Metaphysical blood is nearly as opaque as the material kind. He closes his eyes and feels the spirit of ambience. The world around him rushes by as he breathes. He carefully treads the misty path of consciousness. Forgiveness. So surrounded in his own mire of doubt and disarmament, he cannot feel anything beyond his own skin.

My hand slips inside the murky form, as if held in velvet, synaptic glove. Fingers and pens write words on the inside of his consciousness. Thoughts tease out of him like unwanted spirits; they are hungry ghouls that have no place in the physical world. I carefully pluck them from the air –forms of gloom I have no care to keep. They are persistent and sticky like swirls of dark matter that cling to the light.

I shake free and continue inward. My path is blocked by the chaos walls he has chosen to erect. They are frightening figures, tall and deep. Their cracks are filled with momentary lapses of civility and need. Fingers lick the shape of the brick. Pliable memory. The only way through is through. I seal my body and heart and thought to the face of the hard dream. It holds me a molecule’s distance away. Suddenly, the bridge gives way to the river below and I am embraced. Panic. The path is shattered by the sudden soul of life. I catch my breath, aware of the new spaces conceived in my presence. I, too, am afraid of the fresh universe that kisses my lips.

Grab my soul and turn it upward toward obscurity, I am filled with possibility. In the merging becomes something the dream could not have contained – the duality of one is necessary. Digging darkness begets the chaos of human love.

in The Outward Spiral of Me

Depth. Breadth. Far and away. My eyes can be blinded by the light I seek. I own the moment for the space my breath will allow. I cannot hold it, any more than I can hold this physical body through the ages. Weaving the dark matter into light is more difficult than I could imagine. Yet, there is ease in the practice, after years. The dreams come easier to me, sifting like gentle magic along the pathways of nature. It is the water on my hands that brings my soul to the gate.

I collect the fears and dreams and begin to sew. They are hard and harsh, forming the fabric of space and time that is of one vision. I seek the shimmer of one side of the cloth and the matte of the other. There are always two sides to the universe, always a choice. Always. I turn the rough stone in my hands over and over again, hoping for some polish. I know, as I always have, that one stone will not polish without another. I must choose to step into the chaos to order the universe.

In my hand, I hold the circle, the perfection. It gleams like the noon-day sun, wandering the length of the sky. Clasping the familiar warmth of perfection to my breast, I only desire. I realize the only way to view the light is from the darkness. Those that stand in the light can only see the darkness. There is the depth of two. In the two, the lines dissipate and the two are whole. One can only see what the other cannot. Alchemy is this: to stand in the both of the moment and become.

-TDD