...and the weird fever that runs behind our blogs.
Duckbeater
In correspondence to you all, to the surprisingly large number of attendees to my somewhat daily milieu, there is a tremendous amount unsaid on any given entry to the public. What is lost is sometimes found in the direct correspondence that we send one another, the purposively forced communication (sometimes easy, sometimes hard, but always a direct decision) that we send with intent for only one other set of eyes.
With this letter, I join the blogger-union and subscribe to their unwritten demands of a single, catchphrase, hook-line-and-sinker sentence as the second paragraph.
I often have so little to say because I find the exercise of relating trivial failings and upstarts as exactly that--trivial. What I don't find trivial is the search for some meaning, some Reality beyond the primitive allowances of our own senses. We devour books like porn, sure that our obsession is in a greater realm than one of sensuality, and ask questions that have plagued all of humanity since the first moment that we realized we were going to die. We listen to music, searching for a trance that takes us beyond the basic moment of our lives and try to relegate meaning to the bass-line, the sudden kick of the guitar along the bridge. We move and we travel, scarring beaches with our footprints that we know will only too soon be erased and left for another to imagine that he is the first to walk where ancients walked, regardless of the imaginary time-gap that separates us from the Ancients to the Now. It's all a fingernail shaving of a king dictating his measure of time.
I'm home alone for the first time this Christmas, and though I do not pity myself, I feel my pain in the ache of too-hard movements in the gym, in the grappling of meaning in the oblivion of pain. All thousand selves of mine that are catered toward cry out in unison of this solitude having meaning, even if they will later bicker whether that should come forthright with the night or after the sweaty embrace of so many anonymous faces in a crowd of others searching for something that I may or may not imagine.
With interiority comes acknowledgement of its existence in others, even the most simple of beings whom we come across in our global dealings. The bored face of my driver tomorrow in a foreign country will most likely be lost in the subdued song broadcasted on his favorite radio station, chords that are unfamiliar to my ears, but represent a home and love and dreams that I cannot begin to fathom. The letters this man may write may come with quotes from the Quran, so removed from common thought in its power that it arrives as a spell-checkable item in my own diatribe. And when we attempt to share this interiority, when we flounder at giving it words, there is so much we'd rather have understood unsaid than cheapened by being put to the verse and chorus of a language that in seldom shared.
The "weird fever that runs behind our blogs"? How about the one that drives at the marriage of sensuality with intellect, how about the one that searches for an early night in bed while facing a 4am phone call to tell him that work is about to begin, that his rooster has come in early this morning and crows just as shrilly? How about the trance of life, that sits in the moments that are bound to come, when I sit exhausted and spent in the back of a van that takes me in circles, driven by a man I will never know beyond his nodding head and his patience at watching me button up the tasks for the night in red, flaring seals?
This is the man that you follow--this is the fever that runs behind my words.
