Old Work —

>brain <
It seems I am doing an awful amount of catch-up. Not only for when I freeze blogging, but also for all the years I was too frightened to put anything online. Because all my work is like a labyrinth of my mind, puzzle pieces for me to build with and ponder and plant for periods of time, it never works to begin posting today’s work. It is forever bouncing off everything else in my heart, chemically forging new substances — except when isolated. The very act of finding and posting old work brings new things suddenly to life. I may never write from a blank every day, but if I do it will not be now, when I have the privilege of peering through evidence and circumstance so clearly.

 

I’ve got a few poems on the go at the moment, peeking at a series I’ve had on the brain for some years now. I’m excited, but I know I can’t rush it; it’s there for me whenever I’m ready, developing, and that contents me (to some degree). The poem, for anyone who’s interested, is about feet. Yes… feet. 🙂 However at the moment I can’t lasso the subject to my liking. I’m still writing too much around it. I’ll get there tho. The impetus is so worthwhile I have to keep trying.

Apparently without vision, the people die. It’s an old quote from somewhere that’s literally branded into my soul. Pretty sure it’s the Bible — Isaiah or something? I feel that it’s a very important thing to grasp — especially the communal and national aspects, as they are always more than the sum of their parts.

I wonder about vision. We can get so wrapped up in it that it is no longer a good thing, yes. That’s a sort of dementia we are all prone to. But what IS it, when it is good? Don’t we know it in our souls, when a vision walks that thin golden line that shines — doesn’t it glow inside us from the soles of our feet to the crowns of our heads moment by moment as we follow it, each moment new(boththegoodandthebad), worthwhile?

Don’t we recognize vision, still?

Find your vision. Share it.

Without vision we wither piece by piece, each part separating from the others and falling away, drained and brittle. Without memory.

And in these days of heady philosophic dis-integration
every flower wants a barren field of its
own.

Share it. Wrestle with it. Fight for it, if you must. Shape it, mold it, teach it, colour it, mend it, accompany it, and let it
grow in exponents & dimensions.

We cannot do it all alone.

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