Wednesday, February 16, 2011

new finger motion

Moments, these moments that hold time in a way that feels like hot fine sand running through my fingers and into my picnic lunch as the waves lap at my feet and I drift to where all the water drifts, away, somewhere great and fantastic.
These goddamned moments that hold me fixed to this spot w/ no hope of turning or being any further than this expansive here & now. What matter, for it holds, I sway, and the rhythms start in ways that I cannot nor want to understand as I am farther away than these moments that want & try to hold me here. I am. And that cannot in any way beyond my fingertip thoughts be an anchor for what pushes and pulls through my most base of being. I can picture a thousand thousand thousand moments. All hanging fire, waiting for the reference point to catagorize them into some sort of library limbo. Or it’s all going in quite the opposite way, w/out the all consuming, confining point of reference it all just stays where it is, floating like diamonds, like a snowfall where each and every snowflake holds you in the palm of its hand and allows for each individual snowflake moment to stand alone and together, all in that tick of time. When the sheer volume of information input into the mind is likened to a moment, a satori moment. And even before any thought is really put to it the whole scene is ready to pack it in and become just another sensory overload, but deep down the editor who needs to catagorize and compartementalize it all is kicked in the nuts and goes down like a sack of hammers. Leaving the moment to be, to be, to be, to be, to be.
Cars drag by, chicking and chugging and moving and lugging and I watch them. Watch them move in the sweet way that inertia allows. Forces of different kinds playing out the hands Newton dealt them. And the piano tinkles in the back ground, playing to the drummer who sweeps his brushes in synchophantic melodies. I push out of my thoughts, beyond this finger motion of alphabet to the realm of notes, high notes, low notes, trilling notes and a sad moan made light in a blink of an ear.
And the world starts to interupt in a way that cannot be held back and that is not in any way unpleasant nor is it in any way pleasant. This all seems to go so far beyond the pale of the usual pace of the day. When forgetfulness is kind and befriends me I can be, just be.
And that is saying something, that is the confession, the moment, the goddamned moment that has no way of being understood or related to beyond an understanding, a pleading, a look in the eye and a hopeful nod of “Am I understood the way I think I should be?” Ha.
These moments are not to be related, not to be desired, not to be shared. They have a purity and strength that is all but destroying. And by attempting to dilute them through the actions of communication they are reduced to a mere caricature of themselves. A mean and venal reflection of what they are. Why must man reduce themselves thus? What loneliness and fear drove us from our true selves?
These are not my questions. These are questions for those who cannot and will not allow themselves the moment of the moment. Perhaps I am another breed, perhaps not.
I can see in words. I can see in music. I can see in every language known to man & to beast. For this I am blessed and similarily cursed. Sometimes the jumble of all the speaking, all the tongues, all the notes, drives me to a distraction that does not allow for my freedoms, for that lightness that holds me.