Green tea and the pale light of the kitchen stove slipping in to trick my pencil into writing. I can barely make out the words but it really doesn’t matter…does it? There is a place where all the words are imaginary, like fairies or nymphs or pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, but poets and painters know the muses are real.
We speak in divinitus inspirata…in the conscious words of God that we call our own. Inviting and inciting, heretics and demigods and wanders who slip away into the stolen invisible…like you and I…to taste the water, the stuff of gods, that drips from the fabled forbidden fruit. The stuff of life is a metaphor. That’s what they want us to believe, right? That Adam wouldn’t take that first bite for all eternity if he could. It’s not that he didn’t listen, that he couldn’t follow the rules, it’s the pre-eminent present hedonism that ‘the author’ subscribes to that began it all. When his teeth sank into the apple and the juices surrounded his tongue and glossed his lips and…nothing else. Just that moment. That’s all. That is everything.
Is there anything as selfish…as this? As ‘the Rape of the Lock’, or Homer’s epic escapes? 15,700 lines and more in the history of ‘man’, of being, and writing, “these are the words of God.” Imagine the fruits that were devoured that night in the…what’s the word? Omnipotent – all powerful – no, Omniscient – all-knowing – no? Omni…? What is the word for ‘all good’? In the moment it doesn’t matter, does it? Or for the generations who followed reading the words, all words, like they were there in the garden picking the fruit next to him…maybe just one bite…next to me. Go ahead…
“You’re into this poem…” (Who said that?) William Carlos Williams? Robert Bly? A.E.Housman? Sylvia Plath? It sounds like Henry Miller but it wasn’t him… J. Alfred Prufrock, one of the disciples of Christ, Mohamed, Ulysses, Titus, Henry V, The Lord of the Flies…(insert your list here)…Richard Bach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, forwards and backwards, for better or worse, and, and, and…and, “let us go then you and I”, anywhere but here, anywhere but right here, right now.
“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”…the death of the white noise and the test patterns was a silent as the mute button on your computer at 3:00am. The death of papers and pencils is only a generation away. There was a time when the anthems played and the white noise reminded us it was time to unplug. Time to go to bed. Meanwhile, the automatic sprinklers whoosh on at 5:38am like clockwork and someone is still out there Tweeting at 2:38am their time because they know you are here, right here. Don’t think you are different, or better, or smarter because you don’t worship a book. You are here, aren’t you? (Stop reading then…I dare you).
Still here right? Imagine the audacity of a god, I mean a television, that would sing ‘Oh Canada’, or that song our American cousins sing (just kidding…I know what it’s called) and simply sign off until morning. Who are they to tell you you should go to bed at 3:00am? Got what you wanted now huh? I told my father before his birthday that this generation has swallowed its own pill. Generation-i (quickly consuming all the other generations, my precious generation-x included, with wireless connections at Starbucks) is at the tipping point where they are ready to accept (have accepted?) that it’s somehow cool, even intellectual, not to believe in anything. Anything but themselves…sort of. The truth is a one liner from, “When Harry Met Sally” (remember that one Harry Connick Jr. fans?). I wanted to be a journalist until I saw that movie and Harry said, “So you want to write about stuff that happens to other people.” No. That’s not it. That’s not it at all. Is it?
There is a battle raging for your time, for your ‘like’, for your ‘follow’, for your life, for your story. (A battle I am winning right now by the way….just saying.) Writers talk painfully about ‘writer’s block’ like there is some prophetic apostle’s sermon trapped within that can’t find its way to the surface…to you. Is what you have to say so important, so meaningful and poetic that you can’t think of what to say? Maybe writer’s block is God’s way of telling you what you have to say is not that important, or better yet…aspiring authors, poets, journalists, bloggers and writers of all sorts take note…maybe you, we, need to search deeper for something more meaningful.
As for the rest of you, you have taken the first step…click.