Writing Practice – 4/10/2019

Describe a moonlit night

Quiet. Only the sounds of trees growing, stretching their wide-reached arms towards the heavens comes to my ears. No noise, no overwhelm of shouts, no conflicting temptations of birds chirping or dogs barking or children shouting distract me from the peace of this moment.

I sit upon a bench, ten steps from the edge of a small pond. The ground here slopes down steeply to the edge. Were I to drop a ball, it would bounce, once, then roll steadily into the water, plashing in and tinkling echoes back to those same trees which are stretching their branches skyward.

There is no other person to see me. I am alone, but not alone. I am surrounded by the resting birds, the sleeping snakes, the badgers and rabbits and voles and burrowing mice and the worms underground who rest in their circadian rhythms, rest when I am supposed to rest, they still when I am supposed to still, they sleep when I am supposed to sleep. But I do not sleep. I sit on the bench, on the four oak slats digging in to the backs of my thighs, and I tell the world my sorrows.

I pour out my heart, my troubles, my frustrations to the waiting scene, bathed in the light of the just-past-full moon. Two days ago it was a perfect, brilliant disk in the sky; it lived up to all expectations of justice, and beauty, and power. Today the edge has been worn away slightly, as if a relentless river has torn unevenly into at the side, creating a bit of a ragged edge, and a lack of symmetry I feel acutely resonant in this moment.

I am unbalanced. I am out of touch with something, yet I know not what. I bring space, I bring opportunity, I release my convictions to the world through my speaking, my vocalizations, my manifestation of the problem, and yet they remain. Far from a cleansing process, this has become a reinforcing action. Instead of using, instead of seeing, instead of experiencing a cleanse of the stress intended to come with the verbalization of these problems, the opposite has occurred. I am no more at peace than before I began. On the contrary, expressing myself has brought into greater relief the need I have, the hole in my heart and in my soul’s experience. I live incomplete, yet so close as to imagine a wholeness I can not yet experience. Like the moon, above me, I am growing smaller, if I do not recognize my problems and my failings, and I shall soon shrink to nothing. I must, therefore, take advantage of the opportunity afforded by this little moment of self-reflectional wisdom, and choose to alter the course of my trajectory. I must redeem my path, I must move from waning to waxing, I must transform, metamorphose, recreate, regenerate, myself from something shrinking, disappearing, destroying itself in a self-cannibalistic overture into something growing, filling, generative, experience. I must be opposite the moon, and must transform. I must Live.

Writing Practice – 11/13/2018

Write about this picture…

courtesy of MJK

There is a stillness, a calm, settled about the scene. The grey and white of the sky blends with the grey and white of the grounds, blends with the grey and white of the tree, stands contrasted by the bright, electric blue of the trash can. It is as if everything else is trying to hide, to disappear, to blend into the surroundings, but the trash can, like a Broadway star, or a passing comet, chooses to burn brightly in the foreground, so that none shall miss it. It makes its presence known not so much by action, but by stature, by being, by character.

It is strong, it says. It is resilient. It is powerful and enduring. It lasts, it holds across the years and decades and centuries and eons, it remains when the transience of all the others have come and gone. Grass, green now, will wither and die in the summer heat. Snow, white and soft now, will first harden and freeze as the ambient temperature drops, then will evaporate or melt as the sun warms up the surface again. The tree, even, with its green-orange-brown cycle, will not have any similar claim to permanence. It will transform, will grow, will fade, will fall eventually rot or fire or man, will be no longer, but the can, solid, stark, knows no such fear.

And, because of its boldness, because of its resilience, it fears nothing. Fears no wind, or water, or predator. And thus it has no need of camoflage. No worry about hiding, no chance of discovery and destruction, so it can be bold, can be proud, can be prominent, and clothe itself in brightness, in radiance, in vibrancy, and stand as a beacon to self-awareness, resilience, permanence, and the truth across the days and across the [illegible].