Just watched a movie about the highly complex intracacies of computer hacking. Mind-boggling in that mode. Computers, the detail, the systems interplay. Afterward, I began listening to music, abstract even as music goes. This occurs to me. I have access to something no one else does. My own experience filtered randomly and meaningful through the soft lens of effortful wide-minded welcome. No fingernails tearing the vision in the name of analysis. No bias leaning toward cowardice or gusty action or ecstatic love or unrequited expectation. Admiration for and awe of what I am. Nothing special. That’s the divinity, There’s divinity within me, with all of us. This soothing sense loping along like a grassy plain in the fresh morning.
And this is the way I know to write. Effete when applied to a story. But delicious, filling, significant in the understanding that transcends particulate activity. Want-goal. Attempt-success. While I write, the looseness, an undisciplined word flow emulates what I am and coupled with the knowledge that what I am is without parts or time points, without then and soon or even now. The only effort required remains keeping at bay the illusions of physical comfort and the seemingly important.
(Written in the Summer of 2012)
