"Shh, Little Girl," says the angel. "I will cover you now."
"Yes, please," the girl relents. "Please cover me for a long time."
"Always."
"I give up again."
"You never came out of it."
"Must you remind me?"
The angel laughs. "I have never reminded you. I merely open your eyes to the moment in which you have always been. Your fate met you at the beginning. Try to avert your eyes and it stabs you in the back. Best to face it willingly. Nothing will change you."
"You are not being very helpful, dear."
"I am not meant to be helpful. I am only an arrow pointing the way."
"And an arrow isn't helpful?"
"It is not an arrow on a spear."
"Maybe that would be better."
"You are not ready to come with us yet and so, we do not carry a spear for you."
"Oh, yes, you do. You just don't throw it. I know you never miss. How could you? When everything is destined from the Point?"
"Does it hurt?" asks the angel.
"Does what hurt?"
"You. Now."
"Everything hurts. Would you like some? Take it!"
"As you know, if I could feel, I would take it all from you. Or share it. But I am incapable."
"Of course. Of course you are incapable. Like I am incapable of saying anything to a human being and having it understood."
"It will be one, day Little Girl."
"By people? Or by you?"
"Yes."
"Nice answer," says the girl. "Avoiding. As usual."
"What did you expect?"
"Nothing. I expect nothing. You've trained me well."
"You have only trained yourself. As you know, we could be nothing more than a whisper you cannot hear, if you so wished it."
"I have always found sanity in the madness that is you, Uriel. Don't ask me how. But it is true. I would rather be mad with you than without you. Because my own race sells me short. Or I sell them short. Or whatever it is. How should I know?"
"You know, Little Girl. Like you know that we cover you."
"Let me deal with this alone."
"You have never dealt with anything else wise."
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
On Independence
July 4, 2012
I used to be proud of this day. Unfortunately, I have read my history, which never leaves me shy of ashamed. The pit of shame grows deeper every time. There is nothing I can do about it.
We Americans will never fight the right war of independence - we are too blind, too shortsighted for such bloody activity. For all our pomp, trampling around on the "home of the brave" and "land of the free" -- when will we learn to look backwards and examine just how valiantly our fights were won?
When will we ever weigh the cost of our illusive freedom (for turning a blind eye is might blissful and a Big Mac is more pleasing than shoving the likes of Wounded Knee down our throats) against the cost of dignity?
I realize now, of course, always too late, that no destiny was ever manifest but that which we create and execute ourselves. Divinity fled from Eden as we marched West and jumped off the cliffs of California. And what a white man's burden is that! Chasing God all the way into the sea to claim our "destiny" all in the Good name. And questionable faith.
The idea used to be beautiful to me. It was beautiful until I learned how much of its full meaning I had to omit: life - if I were a land-owning white man; liberty - to plunder and pillage and oppress - if I were a land-owning white man; and the pursuit of happiness - repeat the refrain again. Though the definition has been revised time and time again, Americans have still never quite defined "happiness," and I'm sure we never will.
If it really is that picket fence, painted shiny white but termite infested, then it's not my dream. And if it really is money,l gotten through deception and derived from imaginary confidence or the lack thereof - it is not my dream, again.
July 5, 2012
I have built my own dream, far away and I know the irony of it. East not west but still just as manifest as ever, expanding borders of attitude and ideology, again with my presence that is not native. Am I just as guilty as everyone who won the West?
People always have a way of looking back on history and convincing them selves that they aren't continuing it. It is a shame, then, because there is nowhere to run, trapped on this green and blue sphere that we systematically destroy. It is a shame that for all my thinking, it will always be human.
Don't misunderstand, I am not self-hating, only frustrated. I am not out of rope, just lonely. It is all empty space except for where the atrocities are. Maybe there is a veil somewhere that ripples occasionally and lets some beauty through. Or maybe beauty is something we contrive, so desperate for goodness we start hallucinating our greatest desires. The heat is strong. And the mirage is seductive. But its water won't save us.
I used to be proud of this day. Unfortunately, I have read my history, which never leaves me shy of ashamed. The pit of shame grows deeper every time. There is nothing I can do about it.
We Americans will never fight the right war of independence - we are too blind, too shortsighted for such bloody activity. For all our pomp, trampling around on the "home of the brave" and "land of the free" -- when will we learn to look backwards and examine just how valiantly our fights were won?
When will we ever weigh the cost of our illusive freedom (for turning a blind eye is might blissful and a Big Mac is more pleasing than shoving the likes of Wounded Knee down our throats) against the cost of dignity?
I realize now, of course, always too late, that no destiny was ever manifest but that which we create and execute ourselves. Divinity fled from Eden as we marched West and jumped off the cliffs of California. And what a white man's burden is that! Chasing God all the way into the sea to claim our "destiny" all in the Good name. And questionable faith.
The idea used to be beautiful to me. It was beautiful until I learned how much of its full meaning I had to omit: life - if I were a land-owning white man; liberty - to plunder and pillage and oppress - if I were a land-owning white man; and the pursuit of happiness - repeat the refrain again. Though the definition has been revised time and time again, Americans have still never quite defined "happiness," and I'm sure we never will.
If it really is that picket fence, painted shiny white but termite infested, then it's not my dream. And if it really is money,l gotten through deception and derived from imaginary confidence or the lack thereof - it is not my dream, again.
July 5, 2012
I have built my own dream, far away and I know the irony of it. East not west but still just as manifest as ever, expanding borders of attitude and ideology, again with my presence that is not native. Am I just as guilty as everyone who won the West?
People always have a way of looking back on history and convincing them selves that they aren't continuing it. It is a shame, then, because there is nowhere to run, trapped on this green and blue sphere that we systematically destroy. It is a shame that for all my thinking, it will always be human.
Don't misunderstand, I am not self-hating, only frustrated. I am not out of rope, just lonely. It is all empty space except for where the atrocities are. Maybe there is a veil somewhere that ripples occasionally and lets some beauty through. Or maybe beauty is something we contrive, so desperate for goodness we start hallucinating our greatest desires. The heat is strong. And the mirage is seductive. But its water won't save us.
July 4, 2012
"I must be an idiot," says the Little Girl.
"Because," replies the angel, "you are still trying?"
"Precisely."
"Don't give up."
"Even though it's futile? I made that decision so long ago...to be lonely..."
"Instead of untrue."
"But lonely anyway."
"You would have hated yourself," says the angel.
"Yes. And instead I hate everything else. Running and running. All my energy wasted."
"We know you are tired, Little Girl. You are more tired than ever."
She sighs. "Yes. I am very tired."
"And yet you choose to live, as you chose to be born. If you think that thinking is a sin, then end it. If you think that it is a privilege, then continue - and do something about it."
"I will try."
"Don't try. Do it."
"No one is listening."
"Then leave it behind. Someone will hear it one day and be grateful. Don't cry."
"You know I'm not crying, Uriel. If I were crying, I wouldn't ever stop."
"Because," replies the angel, "you are still trying?"
"Precisely."
"Don't give up."
"Even though it's futile? I made that decision so long ago...to be lonely..."
"Instead of untrue."
"But lonely anyway."
"You would have hated yourself," says the angel.
"Yes. And instead I hate everything else. Running and running. All my energy wasted."
"We know you are tired, Little Girl. You are more tired than ever."
She sighs. "Yes. I am very tired."
"And yet you choose to live, as you chose to be born. If you think that thinking is a sin, then end it. If you think that it is a privilege, then continue - and do something about it."
"I will try."
"Don't try. Do it."
"No one is listening."
"Then leave it behind. Someone will hear it one day and be grateful. Don't cry."
"You know I'm not crying, Uriel. If I were crying, I wouldn't ever stop."
On "In Pursuit of Wind"
July 1, 2012
Time flies, even if you're not having fun. I suppose I try to make the best of it, and it could be much, much worse. Waiting is never fun, though, especially if you don't know if what you're waiting for will ever arrive.
It is already July and we are moving into the heights of summer. Imagination has left me, so instead of imagining new worlds, I go back to old ones. Since I left Sibyl Fried for good, it has been six years. But now I can finally rip her apart like I need to.
Her madness is no longer my own. I have expunged that voice from my head and I no longer have to know every breath nor every moment and how they feel to someone who is not me. There are so many wavelengths of Sibyl Fried that I glossed over and shouldn't have, and there are so many more that I described too much.
But writing is never easy. Writing is always an exercise in laying what is most private within you bare to the world's criticism - and worse: your own. Of course, I am no longer the teenager who wrote her, who wrote her children, who wrote their madness, their violence, their incestuous, narcissistic love -- who wrote impossibilities and the small patch out of a tapestry of time. But that teenager was me once, and she has grown into this.
At twenty-five, almost, her dreams both deferred and come-true.
So I rip her apart and build her back up again. Perfection can never be achieved, but you can come close. I've ripped whole paragraphs out. And know i'll write more to erase her esoteric rambling so that her profundity can be understood. This comprehension is more important than flowery language.
They tell you from the instant you realize you're an artist that one of the most important things you can ever do is just let go. Sometimes it takes years because letting go feels like nothing less than slashing and burning yourself.
Time flies, even if you're not having fun. I suppose I try to make the best of it, and it could be much, much worse. Waiting is never fun, though, especially if you don't know if what you're waiting for will ever arrive.
It is already July and we are moving into the heights of summer. Imagination has left me, so instead of imagining new worlds, I go back to old ones. Since I left Sibyl Fried for good, it has been six years. But now I can finally rip her apart like I need to.
Her madness is no longer my own. I have expunged that voice from my head and I no longer have to know every breath nor every moment and how they feel to someone who is not me. There are so many wavelengths of Sibyl Fried that I glossed over and shouldn't have, and there are so many more that I described too much.
But writing is never easy. Writing is always an exercise in laying what is most private within you bare to the world's criticism - and worse: your own. Of course, I am no longer the teenager who wrote her, who wrote her children, who wrote their madness, their violence, their incestuous, narcissistic love -- who wrote impossibilities and the small patch out of a tapestry of time. But that teenager was me once, and she has grown into this.
At twenty-five, almost, her dreams both deferred and come-true.
So I rip her apart and build her back up again. Perfection can never be achieved, but you can come close. I've ripped whole paragraphs out. And know i'll write more to erase her esoteric rambling so that her profundity can be understood. This comprehension is more important than flowery language.
They tell you from the instant you realize you're an artist that one of the most important things you can ever do is just let go. Sometimes it takes years because letting go feels like nothing less than slashing and burning yourself.
May 28, 2012
It is known, of course, that every great idea comes from the germ of nothingness that hibernates and bursts forth without warning from one single consciousness. It is also known that that explosion from nothingness is born out of another's germ that had sprouted and come at least partially to full fruition. But ideas are never whole, for always one builds upon the other. So there is no end to greatness as we struggle like slaves out of stone -- from our humanity into something more divine.
May 14, 2012
When you are young, love is a flame that burns. It is all you can feel, an ecstatic burn, nerve ends blunted. Until the inevitable moment when you wake up -- when the truth of the burn hits you, the flame of fools.
And when you're older, it is the gentle caress of a question, a feather blowing to and fro, that you follow with your eyes and gamble on.
I have always gambled and lost.
And when you're older, it is the gentle caress of a question, a feather blowing to and fro, that you follow with your eyes and gamble on.
I have always gambled and lost.
May 13, 2012
One thing, at least, is certain: happiness is not a party I was invited to. I am only ever there as a chaperone waiting outside on the steps for a glimpse in the door.
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