Do you hear the whispering around the corner or is it just me? She asked softly and eagerly with her eyes she hinted more. I knew not how to respond for it was one of those questions that didn’t really need an answer as you knew it was just a lead-in to a grander theme. But really, she said, isn’t it something how we all go through life as if this was just the beginning, an opening to a play that’s far grander than we could hope to do justice to? Or is it just me? Even those who carpe their diems and proudly proclaim their yolos seem to in an undertone admit that even so there is a faint whiff of dissatisfaction and that the meaning of life is not quite fulfilled. I hesitate to say all is vanity but do you not think that just about sums it up? I lean back and take a sip of my cold drink and let the luscious bitterness roll across my tongue and ponder the truths of what she’s just said. Or are they truths? Or perhaps just grand philosophical statements of the unexplained phenomena that the firing neurons in our brains frantically seek to connect in the patterns that we love to caress once they are defined and neatly boxed? I think sometimes the latter yet she speaks with such fervent adoration for the mystery that she almost understands. I for one cannot understand her fire yet I cannot doubt there is a fire there. So that is the question. From where does that spark come? And is it an eternal predestined flame or is it just a random outshoot of the conflagration of the universe in all its infinite randomness that must in its ways produce a moment such as this? And she as she sips her drink peers back at me, understanding the moment demands a silence and a question as that demands a pondering. What shall I say? I do know that there is something beyond the veil but sometimes I wish someone would tear it down and tell me that all is done and dusted and that here you go – the truth of it all is plain to see. I startle as I realize I have said this aloud. So yes she said slowly, the beautiful real smile dawning upon her face. You do hear the whispering. And you are more fortunate than you know, for your wish? Granted. We cannot see with eyes now but still yet there were some that have. That veil has been torn down and that true answer granted. All in one it was done and now all eternity lies bare to see. No, I say, in sudden realization. You tricked me. And here I thought it was an innocent philosophical digression. Is there ever really such a thing she mused. If you play at seeking answers you do indeed run the real risk of facing truth. Simply taste and see. Look at the words that were written. I choked in fear. Dare I go on another step. If so I may be caught and unable to escape. Or perhaps it was already too late. Those words that were written. They were written in blood, were they not? Veritably, she replied. Blood and water and spirit. The historical accounts all agree. History I muttered. It would be my nemesis. I cannot resist a good story. Well she smiled once more. Let me tell you one.
Curtain Falls
Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Faded Jasmine
I compare my stanzas to that woman’s prose and instinctively feel the gap between
Us that stretches and towers over like a giant sunflower mocking me
Maybe yes it is true that her wells go deeper but that doesn’t assuage my sense of supreme
Inadequacy that simply weighs upon me as a hand upon my shoulder a finger
Scrawling that I am found wanting but perhaps that is ok if my emptiness is filled by the divine
Everlasting water even if she writes lines of such exquisite beauty and did when she was only eighteen so what good am I
Scribbling stories still to be told I suppose and so for now I’ll just turn the page and read another few sentences that play the ivoried keys ever so
Sweetly reminding me of the open door to home at which the candle
Flickers
Marvelous
And we come to it at last, a Sunday almost worthy of all the acclaim. I wish my pen had ink sufficient to write all that I wish to describe, my mind thoughts clarified sufficiently to impart them to the page here and now. Alas my pen is dull and my mind distracted and so I feel most ill fitted to the task to talk of that which most fills my heart. Is that not the way of it at times? Alas, alas. Yet still I must write. For my soul burns within me as I consider this day that is used as a fitting marker to celebrate the reason for which I live. Some call it Easter, some call it Resurrection Sunday, some have their own reasons for not celebrating it at all. For me, I simply delight that there is a day still commonly known as a day we look back to the point in time – real time, defined time – in which a man that was dead came to life. And this was not a cheap trick or temporary reprieve from that most ghastly enemy death, nay, this was a conquering triumph, a resurrection that was a turning of the tide, a proclamation that the grave no longer had any power, death no longer had any sting. For on a certain day on this very earth not that long ago as one reckons time, the man Jesus Christ rose from the dead with the power and authority that verily spoke to the fact that he was not simply a man, but God Himself, the very essence and fullness of God who had been made flesh and now walked upon this earth in a body the like the world had never seen – a resurrected body in all its glory – pointing to a hope that for those who call upon the name of Jesus will never fade nor fail. Indeed – we all who call ourselves Christians rejoice in the verity of the resurrection and delight in the hope that is ours – bought with the blood of Christ and set aside as a people to the very Lord of the universe, we too have a future that is free of death and pain, better than that, a life that will be lived forever with our Lord. Oh what glory, oh what joy! I cannot proper do justice to the song that fills my heart. All I can say now is glory hallelujah. Sometimes I cannot quite believe that God died for me. Sometimes I cannot quite believe that to accomplish this fact, my God hung bleeding on a tree. Yet I look back and sing of resurrection story and cannot deny the truth. My God loved me, my God chose me, my God set his hand upon me and declared me beloved son. What can my fickle heart say in response? Perhaps my pen isn’t quite dry, not yet. Perhaps my mind isn’t quite empty, not yet. Perhaps my song this eve is one granted to me by the God who made the stars who sing along in triumphant harmony. Perhaps – nay, for truth – I am one who can now rest secure in my God’s promised eternal security. It is a thing of beauty that my God hath wrought. I can but look upon it and cry out in praise, that my God has seen fit that justice and mercy might kiss each other at that cursed tree. Jesus Christ is my risen Lord – for now and all eternity.
Another Turn about the Room
A few book thoughts this grey Saturday.
26. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. A strange and beautiful delight of a book. Typically one reads a book and feels that one has a decent understanding of it and feels satisfied upon reaching its close. To the contrary with this one – I feel that five more rereads will not begin to plumb its depths. And I greatly look forward to reading it again. I could talk more about the many characters who are so richly presented and teased throughout – the titular Clarissa, Peter Walsh, the Warren Smiths, even all the smaller bits that still receive more lavish study and attention than the main characters in most other novels – the scene-stealing Sally Seton, the contradictory Mr. Dalloway, Elizabeth and Miss Kilman and others. I think that’s what I loved most about this book, the empathetic and deep look into the lives of those who in other cases would be passed over as mere superficial things. Of course the imagery and description is simply luscious. This book is veritably cinematic. But even so, much of the action is internal and in the minds of the characters we follow, so in a way – is this a story that can only be told properly in the form of a novel? Perhaps perhaps. I feel as if I need to read this again in a year or so and see how it strikes me then. The storyline following young Septimus and Rezia – powerful and affecting and the scene near its close still haunts my dreams. I think on how Septimus and Clarissa mirror each other in certain ways yet wonder on the thread that binds them. Also it’s fascinating seeing the comparison and contrast between Sally and Clarissa and the lives they once led and the lives they now lead. Are they so different now after all? Many more words I could write but I fear without insight. This book is not one that can be entirely captured or comprehended on first read.
27. Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. This book is written masterfully yet I confess I struggled with it at times. The themes in this one are deep and rich and highlight the inability of the mundane and human to fulfill the eternal longings of the soul. For what are we on this earth? Why do our hearts cry? I wish I could write half as well as this author, whose prose is such that it quickly and incisively places one in the midst of a richly textured scene, all the particulars laid out that one can imagine you’re actually there, watching and hearing and getting swept up in the drama of this young man Cyrus Shams. The character work is strong and though I’m not always a fan of many POVs, the author here handles it marvelously, even with the dream sequences that while a bit self-indulgent, are a delight to read and aid well in developing and revealing the character of our protagonist. I do feel though that the scenes where Cyrus is center were my favourite and I was always excited to get another glimpse through his eyes. This book is a weird one yet wonderful – showing us a man who feels a bit lost and searching for meaning, trying to understand how an Iranian-American can feel at all at home in the Midwest, USA. Does he have a home? Or will he forever be an outcast, a wandering pilgrim in a land that knows him not? I will always resonate with a book and protagonist that has poetry and art – I do love a book where I feel a bit akin to one who feels so fulfilled in writing and where the struggles of such are laid bare. There is a great line about the best part of writing being what comes after it has been accomplished and the satisfaction and feeling of completion it brings. I wish I could whole-heartedly recommend, but as those who know me would not be surprised at, I did cringe and wince at times at the profane and graphic content in this book. Not a fan, though yes it is a part of reality of life. Still, I struggled with it and thus would not recommend this book to all. Yet! There is beauty in this book at times. A bit dreamy and searching and I appreciate reading the heart cries of one who knows this world is not enough.
Oh how Wonderful
On this day I sit and think and ponder on all the fingers that point at me and signal with their urgency – it is you! And thus do I walk forward now on this path and as the relaxed posture of the flowers show, it is hot outside and so it is not surprising that a drop or two of sweat slowly slides down my brow. To return to the theme, perhaps I am a bit too self centered in my musings so I consider that all I see is concerned with me when in reality I know that this cannot be. For true, if I were the center of this world’s play then would not I perhaps inhabit a more prominent role? Or am I just doomed to be the bit character, the one with a single line in the third act that perhaps isn’t even heard over the shrill whistling of the birds perched overhead on the balcony. Perhaps so. Yet if I have a line and if this line must be said, should I not practice the all important art of elocution to ensure that at least there is a chance the few words I have fall gracefully upon the ears of those still perked towards the stage? That is my attitude and hopefully it is not arrogant to assume such, especially if I have manfully resigned the expectation that the central part is mine. In fact it never was. Grateful for that I am for it means I can rest in the shadow of another.
In fact all my hope for a better life lies not in what I can do for myself for all my own strivings show is – in proven fact – how inept I am at bettering myself in the attributes that have that certain something – oh you know what I mean – that aspect of the infinite, that piercing rhythm of eternity. So my ineptitude points to the fact that I cannot in and of myself contribute anything of lasting value to the novel whose pages so rapidly are flicking flicking towards its close. But why yet does my finite sluggish mind grasp so much for the beauty that it cannot in itself define? If I cannot so define, how do I know that there is such a possibility? This concept has stubbornly embedded itself in my mind and perhaps is an original feature of my soul, that idea that the infinite exists and that it is beautiful beyond compare. Where is this treasure, where is this pearl of great price? Perhaps oh if the infinite would bend down and say a word or two to give me that glimpse for which my soul longs. Oh for this word to come down and in itself give me such life that in comparison to it all else is merely grinning death. Oh for this word to stretch forth a hand and say that which my soul aches to hear. Where is this treasure, where this pearl of great price? Perhaps it truly is found in that song of grace and truth which I so casually dismissed so long ago. Perhaps it truly is found in that old worn story that says that man or god or perhaps both came to bring peace to earth. Where is this treasure, this pearl of great price? I shiver as I say aloud that name that rings redemption in divine majesty. I weep as I sit at the foot of the cross and ponder he who is called Jesus Christ.
Signpost
request one more time
kiss upon the brow
see how the stripe splits
the asphalt
blue blinks to green
foreordained
sprinkles of cinnamon
Betrothal
he swirls the spoon around the cup
in counterclockwise circles
as he gazes blankly down
at the countertop
blackness formless may be
but light spoken forth
sparks revelation
a child’s heart turned
a place prepared
he takes another sip of coffee
mind spiraling in clockwise
meditations on eternity
Fading Away
on the rooftop she sits
gazing wearily at the stars
they’re cold she says
just like me
yet a spark of fire
just like me
as she lets drop her hand
brushing the slate
and breathing deep
smoke and fire on the nighttime breeze
Beach House
It is a wonderful evening to write a few words of thoughts and even praises, although I do not think my mind quite capable of the task. It is common at the end of a finespun weekend to attempt to chronicle the threads that led one to where one now so at peace sits and in glory hums. Yet sometimes the process of telling over one’s own story with all the subtlety of snapping scissors can tend to detract from the beauty of the whole. So why not let my mind sit in graven anticipation of homeward calling, no matter how far from now that time may be. Why not says he? And so let me leap up and carefully procure a candle never used and prepare the wick for the flame. In silence I wait and in silence I muse over one thing over and over. And occasionally might I in silence ponder of that far off land and of the name that gives me a shiver and sets a spark in my frame. So why not let my heart dwell in eager imagination of homeward sailing, no matter how far from now that time may be. Why not says he?
Something Weird 