Sunday, July 20, 2008

Spider's Silk. Letter 2.



Yes,________,

The silence between us has always glowed in the fiery furnaces of my recent recollections. I spend my days in memories, often lost amidst a frenzied sea of faces, weaving in and out of the pulse of normal life. I struggle to maintain the same self-assured attitude which you so easily spout but I am not so quick to compare my escapades to those of an immortalized Ithacan king. Your name frequently finds itself a fertile home in the folds of my thoughts. Memories crown themselves rulers of my mind and long nights are spent chasing the past in circles down roads I never thought I'd find again.

Together we frolicked through the pathways of our past and time and again we've discussed all the things we did and all the things we did wrong. There will always be things which could have changed and we always want to be given the chance to do it again. But, we continue to absorb into each other and it seems like no matter how hard you try to build an inner life, there will be someone with whom you have to live an outward life. Sometimes my outward life is a lie and the life which reveals itself through brief and simple daydreams is more honest and true than anything said to another person.

I, too, remember when we dove directly into that deep, blue beyond. We didn't stop to look over the edge together, simply nodded and ran: our faith fraught with a faint horror but still smiling. We soared down the plateau, towards some unknown undiscovered future. You said it perfectly when you described the window pane quivering as it spasmed beneath the strength of the wind. We understood it then, even above the knowledge that we were shifting apart, that the world beneath us was wavering on the brink of a sudden shift.

Our lives interweave like layered webs and we struggle through different degrees of entanglement. Sometimes it seems we are wrapped up and waiting to lay victim to some unseen but hoovering Shelob who hangs eagerly in the shadows for the right time to strike. Other times we are falling through many stretched out cotton webs, slipping farther and farther into the depths. When you write to me I feel as though I am at the bottom of that dark well, staring up into a brightly lit sky obscured by the gossamer membranes woven, back and forth between the walls. I see your face at a distance but I know that you are only going to stay long enough to make me wonder what could have been.

We will always meet again, friend, within the weightless wanderings of ancient Ithacans or entwined in the spiders' silk of the skies. I will always find you peeking out at me from the edges of deep woods or from the shimmering surface of the sea and I will know that you think of me when your heart folds in your chest and you need to find a reason for things. Our lives and all of the other lives have all faded into the constant song of the past, as do all things but the persistent sea and the lands laden with history. So much has made it through the fire and ash of the centuries and even things long buried eventually find their way to the surface, to tell their stories or to inspire a new ones. You can follow mistrals or The Tramontane, you can roam the Rhone and beyond but you will always find the same thing when you look out into a clear sky or threatneing clouds. You will always find your self, seeking out something in the great beyond, a small thing, staring out at a steadily shifting world and trying to keep up with it's stirring.

Don't let the ash settle where it falls.
Frequently,
_________

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Morning Call.



I awake to the rattling hum of a saw buzz outside my window. I fade in and out of dreams and lay in half-consciousness trying to pull from my mind the images of my dreams in order, try to make some kind of sense out of them. I was trying to teach Walker to fly last night. I was also trying to convince Rob that we needed a gigantic dog like Samson. Last night I dreamed that I put two 100 dollar bills into a soda machine and had to walk around everywhere with huge pockets full of change. I think that dream is about moving and about putting too much of myself into things, about offering up too much and getting back too little. I was trying to put the change somewhere safe while I went down a waterslide in an amusement park I had broken into with my Mom. I'm not sure what that means.


Sometimes dreams are simply replaying your days in an abstract way and sometimes they are subtle premonitions. I have a lot of adventures in my dreams. I wonder if that's because I don't have so many in real life or because everything I do in real life is an adventure.


I've sat here tonight and tried to write the second half of En Route Thereto. I'm listening to Beethoven's Symphony Number 4 in B Flat, Op. 60. It's nice to write to classical music, especially when it moves so nicely as this symphony. I really enjoy the pace and the build. It's not too flashy or jumpy. It doesn't move too quickly between high and low volumes. I think all the instruments are at a really nice level on the recording that I have. It makes my writing kind of move in a way that is slightly easier and more fluid. 

I suppose I use this blog as more of a relaxation tool, a way to get basic thoughts written down so that I can move past them to more interesting and focused ideas. Also, it's partially a winding down after a time of trying to get things written and if I haven't succeeded at least I'll succeed in writing something down, even if it is dribble that nobody cares about and that needs not be published. 

Fernando should come alive again. That would be more productive than a bunch of pointless chatter.