Writing, at this moment, is a meditation. It has no rules regarding clarity, form, or the
structure I've learned (and, God willing, teach, one day).
Structure is not bad, but it contributes to a specific type of purpose,
which is, in part, clarity, which, as I've already mentioned, is not a goal
presently. The goal is relaxation,
release, the large balloon floating toward a vista I cannot see but can believe
I imagine, there is where whatever is there will be as sheets, full, feathered,
soft, and perfect, will cover me.
My power is not what is written or how, but what is infused
in each word and what is between each word.
The words are places for sounds to fill absence and make space seem
knowable. It is not. It is imaginable. It is describable, to a degree, to a limited
and wonderfully reflective degree, where honesty is.
Silence is an art woven here. Syllables are a craft, the stones, the
filling of space for form and purpose. They are
left and remain, outliving the hearts, hands and lone spread-wide toes, bare
because it was so long ago that we began to walk on our own land.
I am not smart. Not
as smart as I sometimes think. But belief, there
is something to it. It shan't be abused
nor carted about in excess so long as you follow rules. Rules are secondary. They have not crafted, they are crafted.
They shape not man as in his form to the eye but the
proportions desirable, which change.
They shape man in the same way that words shape the silence
in the mind of a reader, laying tracks for the thinker to get from one thought
to another where, perhaps, she has not yet visited despite being there, well within the reach of her understanding. Not that it is useful to know anything that cannot be used in the future, but to walk around, to wander, even without a destination in mind is said to do wonders for, if nothing else, one's health.
