Saturday, September 30, 2006


There is a way to move. There is a way to move with a sense similar to oil of vitriol, burning the way through lesser substances, finding a path by making a path. There is a way to move through life whilst living it, surging forward with an intensity that easily lends itself to an all-too-simplistic Freudian reference that is far more entertaining to brazenly laugh at instead of sheepishly standing aside, digging ugly patterns in the dirt with the sole of a shoe. There is a way to move with eyes that manage to see as much as they can, not nearly everything, no; but as much as is needed, as much as could ever really be known. There is a way to move with songs of blood vessels overtaking the sounds of silence, forcing you to concentrate on the road ahead, lest you take a wrong turn and end up right back where you started, sitting on your ass in the middle of Goat-Fuck Nowhere.

I never knew how to move on.

It was a problem. It still is.
A problem because the world gives no allowances for those who wish that things could be a different way than they are, even when they should be. Not knowing who or what you are, not understanding where you belong or where you think you should belong. The world is a place of motion, spinning on its crooked axis along its elliptical orbit, expecting you to take things in stride or to simply be left behind.

I tend to dwell. I build things up before they begin, thinking my way into an impossible arena full of expectations, that can end with nothing but disappointment. Leaving me sitting there, staring at the lines on my hands, wondering where it was that I had brought myself to at that very moment. And more importantly: Wondering how. Sitting in a space that didn’t exist. Staring at blood that had never been, trying to relive mistakes that probably hadn’t even taken place. Thinking too much.

And there have been different things, so many things…so many touches that try to point in one direction, or another, or the other, or upways and downways, longways and…other places. Possibly in Denmark. I wouldn’t know, I’m not a masterful wizard of topography. Nor am I merely passable in the subject of mappings and movings, knowing for goings. Not knowing where to go.

And as always, not knowing how to begin.
This is the way it goes. With beginnings intended to be something that can be understood, something planned, something that can be looked upon with little/no imperfections of apprehension building up in the corner of smooth and milky eyes. Intended for greatness, purely by design. And just as surely, intended never to be. This here, this very bit of personal immunization via text…it began as something else. Something It was something intended to be metaphorical and vivid, conjuring nascent images from the depths of Emerson’s Oversoul, something that we all would know, all would understand, even if we never quite knew why. It was supposed to take that which was true and that which was merely fabrication, placing one atop the other with clear boundaries that would still manage to let them seep into one another, granting understanding and meaning through the action of thoughtful mingling. Fiction layered atop fact. False and true. It was supposed to come from something that I wasn’t really a part of -- but still, something that I had seen -- something that mattered, if only in its own way. It was also supposed to talk about Godzilla.

It was intended to be special.
What it was, was morose and pretentious.

It didn’t belong. Not here, there, or anywhere. Not because the idea was entirely poor, not because the situation was one that couldn’t be properly be elaborated upon, and most certainly not because I didn’t bother to care. It belonged in the world. It just didn’t belong with me.

Because I wasn’t a part of the beginning.
It wasn’t mine. I couldn’t step into that moment. Couldn’t bear to swoop in like the grandest of fools, imposing my hijacks upon what I thought would once again be a true duprass. It was too new, too real, too meaningful in the skin of those to which it truly belonged. It was still theirs. Because I hadn’t taken the time to let it become my own. I hadn’t allowed it to cure, growing more and more of my own insights (and possible misunderstandings) like a fragrant rind, only ready for consumption after countless seasons had run their course. I couldn’t truly begin, because I didn’t give it time to move. With me.

There is a way to move, to get you where you need to go. But you never know the way.

Never. Never know how to push, only pulling, even when the sign is right there, a beacon of common sense telling you what must be done. But you never know that way. Never can read, never can see. Never know how to move.
Until the move has already begun.

All of a sudden eyes are cast downward, and the wheels of the grand ol’ wagon-train have already began a turnin’, drifting down a hill that nobody knew was there. And it is with that slightest inkling of an idea, that we are finally able to begin.

This is not intended to be a place of sadness. It wasn’t started with that in mind, and it’s rare that I sit down to make one of these bloody things happen with anything but interest (and the occasional blind panic as a result of self-imposed deadlines) on my mind.

But even with that being so, I’ve often been told that this makes people sad.
I’ve often been told that this place makes me seem sad.
From those who know me well, as well as those who honestly don’t know me at all.
This bothered me.

I wondered why. And in was in that moment, that instant of wondering, that I finally found a way to move. A way to move on.

There were people there. There are many arguments to be had about the state of a lonely society, and many arguments to be made for the affect of solitude upon thinking and moving and being. There are ways to be lonely that lead to ideas, and there are quiet mornings when nothing is better than waking up alone. Waking up and breathing in the air turned sweet by the cold, and suddenly feeling content with that space. That life.

But it isn’t always so. Because when life is lived with expectation inflated by imagination, all of those brisk mornings suddenly have a chance to take a turn towards the frigid. And within that space, it becomes hard to move on.

Unless there are those around who care to notice. Just enough, so that when they look and ask if you’re okay…that their simple action can make all the difference. Stop becomes Go. It isn’t the be all/end all. It isn’t a grand plan towards enlightenment, and it isn’t a call to lose your hope in a sea of solemn indifference. But with that said…it can be nice, sometimes. Living by the kindness of strangers, under the steady gaze of friends. Seeing the life that is already exists, looking at what it is instead of constantly dwelling upon what it could have been.

Seeing things there that matter.
I found myself driving on a quiet night. It was on the Universal Backlot, the general activities of the place greatly silenced by the hour, but still being more active than a common street at 3 AM. A place a business, where I was doing business. But as I was slowly proceeding through the labyrinth of stages and busses left silent for the night, I saw something that I hadn’t been expecting, and certainly hadn’t been hoping for. Deer.

Four of them. Calmly walking across the industrial pathways of that place of business, not caring about where they were or who might see them roam. Their unhurried gait made visible by the colors of the harsh orange lights, and the pale, pale glow of the moon. They paid me no mind, and we both went our separate ways. And even so, despite there being no true meaning in such a thing, as is often the case with the world around us -- their presence did something.

Even as the world is moving along, it will still take the time to move you.

I still don’t know where I’m going. I’m still going to sit still and stare outward, and still make things grander then they could ever have a hope of being. I don’t always take the time to consider ideas written by Camus, and pondered over by people who are far wiser than I will ever care about being.

But I’m where I am.
There is no sadness here.

Not today.

Labels: , ,


Post a Comment

<< Home