Utter.
There breathes something so honest. So pure, so raw. The first time a concept is approached.........the first utterance of a concept. Whether on paper in private, or en mass in cyberspace, or casually on the phone to one recipient.
But that first admittance, actualization and pulsating birth of a concept--its most potent stage--cannot be revisited. With each discussion, each dissection, each outward expression, something is lost. The core nutrition begins to dissolve as refining proceeds.
A concept wilts, tired of its own frequency. It becomes dull and self-aware. Ubiquitous and formulaic. The spread has begun, and it further thins its transforming quality. To witness itself too often is to birth the ordinary.
Walking in the park today, fueled by the chiming energy of the sun as it filtered through, electrifying new green buds, I wanted nothing but to commit my experience to paper. To cement the purity before it began to dissipate, before I had the opportunity to dilute it through chatter. I wished violently that no one cross my path with whom I'd desire to talk. So valiantly, and vainly, I wanted to preserve the potency of the moment--a reconciliation and forgiveness I had endured by simply opening my eyes and facing my cheeks west. Such a simple reverence, but broad and voluminous.
The winter intolerable; a fade into the fog of despair--unable to predict the inevitable appearance of spring--forgetful of nature's cycle. Withdrawn, myself hibernating with the buds. And now so obvious it is, that the light persists always.
The shades we wear obscure its presence.
3 solid springs had passed since I've taken notice of the resplendent few weeks in which blossoms surface. 3 springs I ignored the gradual emergence from drear solitude. Wrapped in the concrete of Brooklyn, the only obvious method of discerning the season was by counting pedestrians. Or sniffing the air. For 3 springs, I had missed its brilliant birth--the rejuvenating spirit and tender touch. And now, when I least expected, but most desired, I have experienced contentment.
PINKBLUEGREENBLUEPURPLE.
I am captivated by its complexity, rendered so accessible. Nibbled on chickweed, gnawed onion grass, plucked violets.
(Sigh) I jumped. I smiled. I ran. I sat.
Whispering willow, weeping. Waving. Creeping surreptitiously...a tentacle brushes my ankle, as if animated and intentional. I paused at the trunk, caressing its tendrils. One lonely wisp, wandering amidst the others. A tug, it seemed to embed its soul in my hand. I greedily pinched the whip from its source. Immediately guilt devoured my action. Too late. With shame I dangled him around my neck, feeling remorse--his severance so final. His fronds grazed the ground, battered, pulverized. My eyes unable to confront their capitalist crime.
I wandered to a place of rumination, pondering upon similar notions of selfishness and greed, sprouting in a frequent letter by post exchange with a friend. Intricate, thoughtful, raw honesty of intuition--all released and given up--to 1 friend, over miles and miles. When the exchange first began, I was jealous of my friend, for receiving my mail. I wanted to retain those fresh utterances. To have (at least) duplicates of my instinctual outpourings...an egotistical grasp...
...and yet I haven't. Because the relinquishing--the invitation to share selflessly--is so tremendous, accumulating with each word. The impact beyond the content and decor of the letters. Beyond satisfactory. A form and process, to release those infantile notions, to offer them. To be free from the bonds of the self. To diminish and dissolve, indiscernible from the nature that spurns it..a most fertile harvest.
