There is a movement underway. All sorts of isolated individuals asserting their accidental individuality in the face of evolutionary necessity, as some wise man once said. It’s a crazy little posse we’ve got forming. Growing in numbers. United in a feeling that can’t even be put into words but we signify it by pointing to the banner flying with the L-O-V-E in big ‘ol letters made of that gooey stuff that is pumpin’ through your guts moments after taking your eyes off the one you’re really feeeeeeeeeeeeeeelin’ it for, at that moment, whomever they may be, on that day, at that time, in that instant.
The story has been told many times of how I once fell in love with a man riding a bike up a steep hill on a hot day, simply for the effort he was exerting. For the love of his effort. The effortless, too, hath a glowing space in my heart. Yes. Love the effortless, But shit in my shoes, do I ever love effort! Right effort. Right thought. Right practice. In a world without right and wrong? How completely audacious!
Each man is responsible for his own soul, and each to his own, as they say. However – and this is a most fascinating point when one considers it as one should – there is an interplay. An uncontrollable interplay.
It is hard for me to make a sentence go in any one direction lately. Luckily, at least, when reading (in the English language, and a few others I’ve encountered) we move our eyes from left to right, top to bottom, and follow the phrase withersoever it goes. (some poets and word-artists and linguists and fartists have had some other ideas) however, the instinct of the masses remains. The hoi polloi, in general, in the Americas, reads LEFT to RIGHT.
Compare. When listening to another speak — save for flights of fancy, blank spots, possible drug interference and intentional or unintentional ignoring — we listen as we live, in real time, experiencing linearity, following the narrative, abstract though the subject matter may be, withersoever it leads. We listen, much like we read. I, personally, both listen and read, and, speaking from my own experience, since that is all I truly have any authority to speak from, can assuredly say that I listen much like I read.
There is an interplay – yet, within it, there is a need for an isolated thought process. A personal inventiveness, which can be viewed as an interaction with the other (though there be no other) be it a person, book, sound, image, or hallucination. Regardless, there is the need for times of quiet in one’s own (common) mind.
Also, we must allot sufficient time for the mutually adventurous to spend time together and create. To breed and compose. Interact. Discuss. Plan. Reflect. The interplay is everything. The one looking at itself as two (or more). Experiencing itself as two (or more).
There is no explaining what has not yet happened to someone who has not yet experienced it.
It is very difficult to merely exist. Practically impossible.
And now, Oh My Lord Don Quixote, all I ask on this night like any other night is the courage to follow, withersoever thou leadest my aching frame; to heed the call of adventure, wheneversoever it heralds, and to love, my dear sweet holy idiot, to love. To cultivate the unconditional giving of self to thy children and plebeians. Thy hoodlums and wackos. Thy dejected, rejected, snotty and shitfaced. Oh lord, sweet lord, daddy of the sugars, momma of the fuckers, sister of the lovesick, brother of the bigness, cousin of the unconscious, uncle of the uglynasties, friend of the faithless, lover of all things just as they are and however they may want to be… give it up. Give it up to us like a 5am jackpot after a long night of pullin’ dry on the one armed bandit.
I can see it. It’s already happening. It’s as ridiculous and pathetic and gorgeous as it can be. The love is raining down, everywhere I’m looking. The sky is falling and it’s about time. The rain is helping it all soak in.