Leaves Rustling In The Wind

Jun 02

My blog is a narrative of things I’ve done, seen, thought or experienced. I think it’s important to be sincere in expression. It makes the words flow in the order of their experience-which may or may not be linear. Memory and events are cut up some times, a montage of events because we think that way, connecting songs to memories or smells to experiences. It’s not in order of occurrence at all, but in order of impact with the foundations things that we may or may not, in fact, recall. And then we interface with other matters of our stories, myths and fables and secret identities (not just Clark Kent, but the Prince disguised as the pauper, the Princess enchanted into something else), destinies and callings. A fish brings a ring to us at the shore of  a lake, speaking clearly it lays whopping fates on us. We’re kind to old ladies who reveal that they are beings of great power. These matters are equal in value, and their memories overlap, whether they happened that way or not isn’t important, it’s what they mean to us.

But there are times we find not fit to blog. Omissions are made to spare the living, to spare the dead. There are so many things I would like to write about but decorum prevents me. The tragedies of others are unfit for strangers to bear in the pages of their texts. When someone anonymous dies, should we, in fact, try to make it pertinent and relate ourselves to it? When Memorial Day came and went, I wanted to scribe my own feelings on war, to say what I think about current conflicts and about the sordid past of man. But it seems a small thing to me-my own views, that is-I’ve never fought in a war. There’s nothing wrong with having an opinion and voicing it, in fact, it is admirable when people do. But I’ve read old essays and articles, editorials from before and after the fact. The men and women who have thought actions against other human beings were justified, only to find later that their words collapsed under their own weight.

The same holds true for other affairs. To be critical of the world means, all to often, that we spare ourselves subjection to the microscope, like a photo taken up too close where everything that is out of sort is there to see. Only-everyone looks that way through that lens. To that end, rather than engage in a matter offensively, I’ve often tried to keep a cool head and stick to the facts, to not let emotion bleed in and remain inviolate. Certain core positions are unassailable: the sanctity of human life, the transcendence of nature, the highest expression of love. And so, instead of throwing out my political views or religious beliefs (they’re mine, not anyone else’s after all, and surely everyone is entitled to their own) I want to share things that make the continuum of being, a common language that, being the property of all, is poetic in nature: a gibbous moon, the language of birds, leaves rustling in the wind…

Read More