I feel as if at times more so recently that I have become a bit of a poet. I am understanding the heightened sense by the imaginative treatment of experience with a condensed use of language that is more vivid and intense than ordinary prose. I see it in what I read for research for my exhibit I am putting together.
This I did late last night:
This thick book drew me to itself a few minutes ago. I do not know why as of yet. Write I must but about what yet I do not know.
I am in the corner of my bedroom. Picasso is to my left, Satine to my right, Sebastian to my SW.
A poem.
I sit here waiting for the words.
The words sit waiting for me.
They are them, I am me.
We wait. We both wait together. The spark of the momentarily release is what we wait for.
The words and I are the same at times. We both wait for that same recognition that the Other - we at times envy - comes to us at our side. We wait for the Other.
The Other knows this. The Other knows that we know of it's existence and laughs while being troubled towards us.
The Other is troubled because the other knows it is flawed and is confused because the Words & I want so desperately what the Other has but does not have since the Other seeks with the same envy what we do.
We all wait for the Self.
I sit here calmly and almost motionless. Enjoying pen to paper with little else determination other then to plainly sit and write.
Maybe, at times it is the simple and extravagant act of putting pen to paper, seeing black lines (that any other society would see as symbols on cloth) that convey the simplest of meanings and the most complex of ideas, black lines on white paper. So simple since this act took millions of years of evolution to become fully realized.
I grow tired now.
Goodnight.
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