It is the season for Political Signs. There are hundreds of them sticking up like uninspired flowers, all over the hillsides, and lawns of this town. They are for republicans, democrats, and for independents.
For national races, and for local ones. The names blend into each other, and the slogans blazoned on each sound like cheap fortune cookie messages.
They crowd out one another for space, as if vying for a better vantage point to shout their messages to passing traffic.
The colors are always dull reds, blues, and whites. I realize that those are the national colors, but when every candidate tries to paint themselves with these colors to try and prove that they are somehow ‘All American’ it loses something in the wash. Are they all afraid to break out, and to use other- more eye-catching colors?
If I were running for office I would look to make my signs as bright and bold as possible. Red and blues would be out, I would use colors that would draw the eye, and separate myself from the pack.
I am sure that there would be those who would see my lack of interest in the ‘traditional colors’ a red flag, but I would bet that there would be a balancing number who would mark my name on the ballot simply because I have the guts to push away from the political surface and take flight with my own wings.
I am the Writer who does not write, and the poet with few poems.
I see myself as a writer, that is my self identity. When i see myself in my minds-eye, I am a writer pure and simple. I relate to the world as a writer, I refer to myself as a writer… Yet I do not write.
Oh sure, I pen a few sentences once in a while, and often I will dive whole-heartedly back into a novel or article i have been writing for a while, but in the long run, I haven’t really written all that much. A few short stories, thirty or so poems, and five or six novels in various stages of completion…
Pitiful I think. Though I know this, it seems that the pressing moments of my life take precedence over that which I really desire to do. Yes, that desire is to write.
So I come to the crux of the issue: I must simply steal the time to write from other interests. I must be a miser when it comes to my free time, and devote myself to the task as though I were a Buddhist Monk in meditation.
I know that to resolve to do this is no small thing, and would be easy to just forget and eventually just lost interest completly. Yet, if I do, I shall live my life in regret. I am now 25, and have known I am to be a writer for a full ten years. What others have accomplished in ten years leaves me to shame.
From this day forth I shall devote some time each day to my pen. EVERY DAY.
The definition of the word lucid is absolute clarity and understanding. As if all the shadows have been cleared away and all that remains are facts. In average existence our minds are busy with the details and routines of everyday life; we often exist almost as machines. As if the conscious mind stays just behind the present, and reacts on delay.
I used to work cutting tires for a disposal service; the job was repetitive in the extreme. Pick up a tire, throw it on the table, pull the lever for the ram, reverse the ram, rotate the tire 1/3rd turn, and repeat, throw the cut piece and then rotate again, cut and throw. Then repeat the same process once again. In the mornings I would see my huge pile of tires to cut and it would seem an impossible task because my mind was too aware of time and of my own existence. But after the first 10 minutes I would begin to lose the present and become more detached from what I was doing. Time would then begin to move much more quickly and aside from interludes of clarity (or lucidity) I was just as unthinking as the machine I worked with.
Much as sleep is an existence where the conscious mind loses it’s grip and in effect dies to time for a while, only to be re-joined again upon waking, so it was for me in working that repetitive job. All those hours were lost never to come again. And what did I gain for them? Nothing but a few dollars spent on bills and items long lost to memory.
So I ask you, how many of your waking hours do you spend in lucidity? How much of your life have you really lived, not just existed?
Think back on your life, what are the moments that stand out? The seconds or hours that have defined your life?
There is that which can not be understood; a sharply defined realm of the unknown. Our minds touch upon this secret only fleetingly. In a moment of self reflection and secretion, there can only be silence of the soul. When at this time the mind is free from any shadows of fear or lingering nightmare; then and only then can this be explored.
And the key turns slowly in the lock.
The gate slides open to frigid darkness and vibrant color, pigments of very thought. My heart leaps in my throat choking away the consciousness. With timid, faltering steps I cross the threshold and enter the silent chamber. Give me a way to capture this essence of life and return it to this world of horror and shame.
I shall shiver away the curtain of darkness that enshrouds our world. I will copy the keys and give them to all the gatekeepers and charge them to let all pass who desire entrance. When the last of our mindless shades have passed forever from the torrid darkness and into the color of thought, the gates will be shut, the keys all melted down to nothing and this realm returned to desolation with only myself; a lone sacrifice.
There is a light in your eyes; I can not explain its source.
Perhaps you can; has there ever been a moment that held you in sway? When you scarce could bear to move lest you break the sweet spell of silence. What ever it was that triggered that spark of thought/feeling I do not know for it will be different to each soul, but it must be there.
Have you ever stopped in sorrow for a sight that passed something that triggered one small buried memory perhaps? Has ever your heart jumped a beat for one second of pure joy? Sometimes upon waking from a sweet dream of peace I ponder what the future may hold.
Can the hope and joy of being content and whole that seems so close within a sleeping dream come into reality? And could the whole of your existence be worth that short sweet moment?
