Tuesday, April 25, 2017
He sits there before dawn doing God knows what with his little word stack. He crunches, tinkers, arranges, and twirls them into shapes that make sense to some ineffable hunch coiling down there in the folds of his gut. Why does he do this? It is because he must. The angels of his duodenum prod him forward and up in search of a direction. He must be lost, you say. He follows a thread that calls him toward something wanting light. He enters the zone of the thing, and, once there with it, in contact, can feel its power over him, the power of its story. It is here that the trash has to be hauled out or the treasure taken home. With a wand made of sound he can then rework the narrative into something a tad more, well, helpful. It is here that desire is so important. What do you want he asks his heart. If the heart is able to speak it will tell him. It is then up to him to locate the beauty in the word pile he has gathered. If he finds the right ones, they will light the way. They will lift his spirit and give him strength and direction. Others will see a change, not only in his eyes, but in his deeds. He enters the paradox of both undone and made anew. They may think him lost, yes. Well, maybe. I guess that the moth, too, is lost, right before it enters the flame.