Tonight is a night for more than ghosts and spectres, it is a night of dark tidings and darker desires. When the earth is robbed of its warmth and the shades that haunt our dreams roam about freely under the moon.
Long before our cities and our technologies mankind has celebrated this night as a passage into the cold months of winter. Halloween represents the bacchanalian frenzy with which ancient man approached the coming change in its environment. It is older than any organized religion, as old as memory itself.
On this night we should go out and surrender to the darkness, give in to the repressed and forbidden urges that every other day we must suppress to exist in the modern light.
Recently, during an excersize in concious expansion of the mind, I drifted out away from the sense of self that is inherent in each of us. Eventually I found a point where I could look at the shape of my life from a vantage that showed me the evolution I had been taking since my birth, and revealed the direction of development I am headed.
What struck me as odd was that, much like a line drawing of free/thought, my life had a shape – a form that could be viewed as an unfinshed whole.
Do each of our movements through life continually add to the equation of self? Can we all be but artists whose existence is merely to flesh out the line of development that each of us must take?
Whatever the goal of the individual mind how far from that outline we describe in time and space is the nature of truth? This I could not see from the vantage I had obtained.
There is something about endings that always turns my temperment toward the morose. Somehow leaving anyplace, whether it be a vacation, a job, or a relationship, fills me with a sense of loss.
When I look over the landscape of time I am about to depart from I feel as if I will never return to this place, to this moment of interaction and experience. That no matter where I travel and who I am with I will never again be here.
It is unfortunate that the human mind is so linear in its development, that we can not revisit, Vonnegut style, the moments we have experienced. To look again out of old eyes and to see the world with the perspective we have gained in our path through time.
Writing objectively about ones own work has to be the most gruelling task that any creative person can undergo. Trying to find ways to be positive about what it is that you have wrestled out of your mind and birthed into the world is near impossible for anyone who actually cares about what they do.
Creation, both the act of creating and the nurturing that goes on after a work finally exists in a finished state, is a very sharp double edged sword. On the one hand you want to be positive, on the other you know so much about the details involved and are so familiar with the work that objectivity is almost an insult to the act of creating.
How is it that an artist can approach themselves and their work from the outside? What does it take to step out of your shoes and be a critic of your own work? If you can’t afford a publicist you have no other choice.
Somehow in the cold communication seems near impossible. Waiting for a bus, standing on the corner. Going out for groceries. All things are done in the silence of the winter’s breath.
It seems like everyday I have to go through the routine of being who I am. A stage act played out from the time I wake to the time I sleep everyday of my life. As I get older I am just now starting to feel the character of my persona.
How is it that we become who we are? At what point in our evolution from birth until death can we finally say that we are a specific person, that our being has calcified into a singular unit, never to change?
Or is it that we are who we think we are everyday, and if that opinion we hold of our self alters than so do we? An ever evolving organism that can alter space and time to conform with its will.
Then I guess we are who we are going to be the moment of death and no other.
Space is something that I have always sought but never really acquired. In all my time in various cities of this earth I have seldom had a really great space in which to work. A couple of basement studios, spending most of the time cleaning away the dust and decay.
What I still seek is a place in which I can expand my ideas out, allowing for the unrestricted growth of creative potential without the usual confines of walls and ceilings. A cavernous space, like a theater of the mind. A place for new ideas to grow into something unexpected and wonderful.
Email may very well be the last vestige of the literary mind reeling up and demanding that man not loose the “word virus” in the barrage of media that pounds the average psyche everyday. But as companies seek to cross reference the content of your thoughts, continually reorganizing and indexing the associations of your existence into financially viable data, man is being pushed, pulled and otherwise cohersed into an abomination of Orwellian double-think in order to sell itself to itself.
I just hope we get a good deal on our soul at the marketplace of tomorrow.
There are days when the mind must seek an outlet for control in the maddening universe in which we exist. Words have a power that few understand and can control the world around us in ways we are unlikely to see with mundane eyes.
Tonight is a full moon, and the light of the moon in the clear skies over Chicago is enough to illuminate the transgressions of divinity that will be conducted in the hours of Mars.
Yet the question still remains, will those words fall on deaf ears or will they reach out to those airy fabrications of self that are called forth from the darkness?
No matter how far I travel in this world I always seem to run into someone I know. Maybe not directly but friends of friends.
Is the world so increasingly small that our acquaintances all know one another? How is it that these social websites affect our travels, our experiences, and our lives through the maze of personal relationships and interwoven tapestries of human interaction?
I find myself both thrilled and appalled at such an overwhelming potentiality.
Last night I was overcome with fear, fear of loss, fear of someone I love being hurt. The details of the situation are pointless, yet the curiosity remains: Why do I feel so completely helpless when I start to worry about someone?
In the dark of the predawn I sat on my couch, overcome with emotions I could hardly put words to. I paced my apartment, stood staring from my porch out into the night. Wondering and helpless to do anything about the feelings and the situation I was in.
At what point do our emotions become the enemy of reason? How is it that we can fall victim so easily to the wash of electro chemical soup that is our body? At what time in the ancient past did man give up his ability to control the vessel of his soul?