I Am the Author

You are poised like a pianist over your computer keyboard, about to rip through the silence with a fury of vibrationless sound.  Your pen dips down to its paper, and that inky scratching erupts into ripples that rock off the page.

It is 1984.  You are the author.

Doty's piece intrigued me because it was so full of assertions regarding the purpose of writing, the power of it, the authority of the author, the meaning of representation versus actual essence, the substance of memory and history, the question of art and truth.  Maybe part of it is that I just watched "The Final Cut" for philosophy class, so Doty's words landed on fertile soil.  I don't know.  At any rate, it has been quite enough to keep my little mind whirring.

We have talked much about writing - for heaven's sake, we are writers!  We have pondered it at length.  But I never seem to grow calloused to the realization of how much responsibility that role entails.  It is almost paralyzingly overwhelming, and I can't think about it when I write. 

Emily offers encouragement when she advises me to "Tell it slant," and I feel like that is a bit of what Doty is trying to say too.  He is obsessed with telling something right.  But what is right?  And from there we spiral into all sorts of philosophical questions. But in the end, he and Emily agree that my reality is a part of reality.  And it is worth writing.  And it is worth other people's knowing.

And that brings me comfort.

Writing is definitely a big job. Doty gives us more than enough to think about there.  But in the end, my inky ripples are a part of reality's waves.  My keystrokes are a cadenza.  I am the author.

midnight muses

day-king's more patient,
wheat-hued shadow,
quiet, guards the air of time
slipping through the gilded fingers
of the whispered cricket night.
silent dusty fires
hang halcyon suspense
moons from the seeping butter glow
of the nocturnal sentinel.

she in the silver dress
dances through the butter-glow,
unaware she's all alone
(or is she? aware? or alone?),
swings her arms and
shakes her head and
flings her ankles high
and dances in the golden moon
until the fire-sky.

purple star -
steady scintillance
unwavering,
peering at me
in quiet confidence
and a precious curiosity...
do you sing?

tree,
you bear such silent certainty,
steady strength and character,
raw, resplendent grandeur,
yet suckle as a babe
upon the earth's green breast
and gaze up wond'ringly
into the starry lights.

just breathe

Writing is like breathing.

I don't mean that in the uber-poetic sense that authors full of cliche inspiration do.

I mean that thinking is something we do all the time (well, most of us... some of the time... you know what I mean), and that sometimes thinking involves big thoughts.  Not that we think for the sake of big thoughts, but that sometimes that is what our little ponderings become, and what do we do then?  Sometimes those thoughts just need to be shared, or we want to share them.  Or maybe not, but for some reason we attempt to articulate them anyway.  And then we run into problems... or, at least, I do.

Thinking is like that breath in.  It starts innocently enough - just doin' what you do to keep tickin' - but then the thought keeps going.  You forget to stop inhaling because the taste of the air is so completely intoxicating.  Then you start to get that drunken butterfly feeling and you're not sure whether or how you should let all that breath burst back out again.

That's where I am:
Noticing.
Observing.
Absorbing.
Pondering.
Contemplating.
Ruminating.
Wondering.

Utterly overwhelmed by the silent commotion between my ears and in my chest.  The drunken butterfly.

How do I say it?  I have a huge bubble of air inside - so big that my cheeks are puffed out now and my eyes are bulging.  Will it all burst forth in a whir of spinning nonsense?  Or will I only breathe out part of the it, and the other parts stay locked in? It would hardly be sensical to anyone that way either.

Oh, words!

Perhaps the most sacred of thoughts cannot be said.  I could believe that.  Routinely, I loose mine on ivory-visaged strings.  They speak for me... to me... in spite of me.  Music is a sacred language, and I have grown up with it always in my ears, buzzing in my fingers.

Perhaps, though, words are just as much a temple of those enigmatic musings.  A different, more concrete kind of music - scary for me, maybe only because I am not as fluent in this language yet.

It will take time, but I want to be patient.  I want to breathe.

I want to inhale deeply, confidently - without fear of coughing my exhalation.  I want to respire with meaning.  The air is intoxicating, and I want to soak it all in.

And maybe, one of these days, my breath will leave my lips as a faintly poetic wisp of words.