I write tonight from a labyrinth of ice. My first post of the new year (lunar or solar).
The world around me is frozen. Hoary trees bow and scrape before Old Man Winter. Limbs snap. Lines fail. Frozen water torture. Nature's pulse forced to a stop.
And where do I find myself? The center of it all. Improbably warm with lights glowing. Seated on the floor, tapping away. A beating heart--hot amid the freeze.
These are days of deep poetry. The world speaks to me in metaphor, in symbols and signs. Everything has weight, portent.
Perhaps it has always been this way, the world. Blatantly miraculous. Terrible. Beautiful. Sublime.
Words can only point., toward these things I understand more and more each day--the relentless Presence of the Universe opening and opening in vast soul-shattering splendor. Quiet, still, and irrefutable as breath. A seizing shudder. An orgasm. All that is, felt in one moment. Gratitude, amazement, release.
When I look out the window at a world erased white, I feel the fragility. Everything impermanent, slippery. Shapes only suggested.
I've been horny lately and lonely. Seemingly similar conditions with two entirely different remedies. I haven't been motivated to pursue either.
How this all feels like a waiting game. A strategy of patience, though. Not a doctor's office variety holding pattern. A poignant pause at the edge of a precipice, pitched forward, out and over some new slope.
I feel I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Serene, calm, sure. And yet, completely unknowing. At peace with ignorance of direction, destination, destiny.
Content to let flakes of life swirl around me, stick in my hair, melt on my tongue...
Passion, beauty, and love, folks--24 hours at a time.
image: Michal Macku
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