27.6.04
I found a book for six pounds. It was out of date (revised long ago) and out of print, and I bought it because I am a completist and not because I was expecting to realise I'd become cynical. Still, I found a piece of writing in it; stark, alone, a passage without context.
I have been struggling with my own writing. I want it to be simple, I want to write without the not-quite-cliches everybody else seems to employ (everybody else seems to think aren't clichés; everybody else never understands what I'm trying to tell them).
This piece has its share of clichés, towards the end, especially. But it feels complete, and simple, and well constructed and comfortable under my eyes.
I don't know why I like it, or what I'm going to do now. I dislike the cynicism and arrogance I have begun to foster. I don't really think anyone else will like it as much as me. But as I was recently reminded, this is my blog, and here I get to be a drama queen, and rant and rave (see that? That's a cliché that is...) about anything I want.
So - here.
"These days the world is gray and heavy. Over this long season I've collected too many things and too many names for things. They cling to me like fine clothes that will never come back in style: leaden shrouds of naming in my heart. Things weigh me down. Now I understand how mortals feel, held in place by the gravity of the souls that move them.
It's the missing pieces that weigh me down the most, crushing me under their very absence. Phoebe got psychoanalyzed and she won't talk to anyone anymore. Martha woke up one day and couldn't stop crying, so she headed out for another chance to get it right. It's the way of our kind; long memory is not something to cultivate. Best to let go.
I wish I knew what happened to Duck. The last time we talked was years ago, and we fought. We'd fallen out of each other's lives long before - no one will ever be what he was to me. Our gangs are all gone now: drop out, burn out, fall out, sell out.
Some days, when no one is looking and I can spare a few minutes from taking care of the little ones, I still dance. It's nothing as graceful or elegant as it used to be. No king will reward me with treasures. But I close my eyes, raise my hands, and the music is there.
For an instant I am beautiful again, and the evening sky is on fire beyond these lead windows. All of us who ever played or sang or tricked or laughed can dance together in the feast hall of this epiphany.
Is it winter already? Come fill for me the parting glass. I will ride the Walrus, and I will poke the invisible flowers. I have always known how."
I have been struggling with my own writing. I want it to be simple, I want to write without the not-quite-cliches everybody else seems to employ (everybody else seems to think aren't clichés; everybody else never understands what I'm trying to tell them).
This piece has its share of clichés, towards the end, especially. But it feels complete, and simple, and well constructed and comfortable under my eyes.
I don't know why I like it, or what I'm going to do now. I dislike the cynicism and arrogance I have begun to foster. I don't really think anyone else will like it as much as me. But as I was recently reminded, this is my blog, and here I get to be a drama queen, and rant and rave (see that? That's a cliché that is...) about anything I want.
So - here.
"These days the world is gray and heavy. Over this long season I've collected too many things and too many names for things. They cling to me like fine clothes that will never come back in style: leaden shrouds of naming in my heart. Things weigh me down. Now I understand how mortals feel, held in place by the gravity of the souls that move them.
It's the missing pieces that weigh me down the most, crushing me under their very absence. Phoebe got psychoanalyzed and she won't talk to anyone anymore. Martha woke up one day and couldn't stop crying, so she headed out for another chance to get it right. It's the way of our kind; long memory is not something to cultivate. Best to let go.
I wish I knew what happened to Duck. The last time we talked was years ago, and we fought. We'd fallen out of each other's lives long before - no one will ever be what he was to me. Our gangs are all gone now: drop out, burn out, fall out, sell out.
Some days, when no one is looking and I can spare a few minutes from taking care of the little ones, I still dance. It's nothing as graceful or elegant as it used to be. No king will reward me with treasures. But I close my eyes, raise my hands, and the music is there.
For an instant I am beautiful again, and the evening sky is on fire beyond these lead windows. All of us who ever played or sang or tricked or laughed can dance together in the feast hall of this epiphany.
Is it winter already? Come fill for me the parting glass. I will ride the Walrus, and I will poke the invisible flowers. I have always known how."
