I like the way random events align and mingle with one another – like the clacking of billiard balls after a super clean break. Close your eyes and it all sounds the same, but if you open them you see that every pattern left by the “break” is unique. All seemingly familiar things are never the same, yet each different thing shares some quintessential similarity. The human mind seeks distinction through it’s own decomposition and subsequent reassembly – in the sounds of nature, cacophony of mankind, even the solitude of one’s own being. If one even bothers to seek reasons for connections, within him or within others, there seems to flourish some associated essence of providence. Make your intent, take your aim, and hand the cue to God – the pool shark.
Don’t you just love the alignment and the chaos? Their coexistence in a single moment, elicits a sweet pain of futility as you sift through the fine sands of your thinking. Through the sieve of consciousness, soft drops of sea glass float to the surface, and crowd into a vision that is rife with colors and piquant non-sequiturs. Perhaps, your hands are etched by the razor sharp edges of jet black obsidian that explode from the molten core of your heart and flow out onto the waiting beaches of illusion. Chaos is the mental inkwell of the belletristic writer. And it’s very intriguing that it’s ultimately never about WHAT you do, but THAT you do. That you do what you love, how you do it, is far different than loving what you do, after you’ve done it. The latter is but ego’s contrivance in hindsight, but the former is a fragrance of innate awareness of how fleeting “purpose” is from moment to moment. Doing what you love comes with a fundamental condition of being love, before doing it.
My verdant eyes have been blinking awake to the sweet procession of pageantry around me and it’s fortunate, actually it’s divine, that the pomp remains in my heart after my eyes close. I’m quite certain I’ll die in my mind – but my heart will continue living in the love-parade. Something about seeing the ray of light in the black of darkness that makes both so rich; this parade goes on all night.
In this parade, it’s a procession of chaos…it has no origin or destination…which means there’s everyplace to go in between. And the cast of characters descend from heaven to the pavement; some like butterflies on the edge of a rose petals, others like raindrops on the windshield, and still others like a crested waves spilling over onto the beach.
The Sufi’s, the careening seekers of divine rapture, hold their heads as cups and pour the wine from their hearts. These besotted writers, painters, scholars, photographers, obsessed and wanton poets; only the lost are found. These wandering lovers and change agents in the world, quite un-deliberately stirring social consciousness, mystically arousing love.
The street corner philosophers. The high voltage dialectic in the dingy enclaves outside the Assembly halls. Now, well, they’ve been forced underground.
These days it seems that the palates of these scholarly bon vivant’s, have dulled to tame and prosaic nibblers. Rather than change the world in their kitchens with exotic and savory spices, they wallow and eat bleached rice over their sinks, wishing they were filling their mouths with chilled moist tiramisu.
All the creative writing it the world won’t change a horse into a bird. But we might be able to change some small thing about a horse into some small other thing about a bird. Micro-biological transformation at the sub-cellular level. Changing big things, one little thing at a time… things aligning and mingling to fulfill a potential to be something else.