Wind on the waters. Not darkness but light, unknown, unseen. A whisper, ohm, and then a storm. That is all — that is everything — that is how we come to be, how I come to be, writing these words, really, truly, ground between the two wheeled gears of World and Time, relishing in the Holy Moment at this Late Hour, 4:27 in the morning, October 28, 2008.
Let there be light; so speaketh the words of an ancient book, laid down like I lay this down. Once, during the Days of Awe, the High HolyDays, I was a child, and I sat in my old house, now sold, on my old couch, given away, reading the linear Pentateuch, when my uncle, now dead (I myself laid him in the ground, wailing and wailing of women, crying in my father’s arms, crying in my aunt’s arms at the apartment after the funeral, no words, no nothing, just the pure and terrrible emotion of heartbreaking pain and the feeling of human arms around me, holding me up), reading about the Genesis. Those days are gone — past out of the Holy Moment, replaced by other days replaced by other days that have led me to this day, this day which is my chance, my one true chance, to reach both out and in and in gathering the legions of my will so touch those same waters of time and beginnings that once rippled with the whispers of a universe being born. I need no whitehaired Zeus-God to tell me the truth before my eyes — the truth that perpetually slips beyond our grasp, pushed out by televisions and lcd screens that exalt the eyeball and wither the hand — reach out then, soldier, child of the lord, reach out, self, lyric odes to action, sitting here, thinking and writing and forming words in the cockhours before dawn, opposite of sleep, opposite of action, student, studious, unused, waiting, waaiting, how much will I lose, how long will I wait, what else, and when else, and why, and there are other friends, and other roads, and first, perhaps, make friends with myself, and find myself in this new city, and do things, and love, and go forth, traveling, on the road, all is not lost, where there’s a word there’s a way, ten vowel phonemes, and graphemes, and syllabic exercises, and weaktongued lovemaking, and alabaster arms, freckled, wrapped around me, smiling, giggling, presenting a poem or joke, my peacock tale, my plumage, dancing now, we’re dancing now, words fall away, it is late, it is early, I am lullabying myself to sleep, to places where I’ll dream, and make actions with the pure factors of my thought, I’ll dream of life, and not death, faces of my uncle and my grandfather who have gone before, my old great grandmother, the love of all who have e’er loved me, all the girls I ever loved, all the friends I ever had, and above them, Saints Paramount, the Special Few, dancing, loving, twirling around, skirts fluttering, hands in gloves and ears in muffs and scarves wound tightly around pale white necks, red cheeks, and breath made visible, crossing the inches of air lit up with the light of holy fires, captured at high price, a bird is pecking, so we go, up, and up, and up, and out, and up, and on, and on, Sisyphus is happy, maybe, maybe still, and I am happy, with him, in the depths of madness and at the height of love and being loved, I will find my place, I will find my calling, my great work, I will sleep, I will dream, I will sleep, I will dream.