Dr. Omed is sad, pilgrims. I am at that point in my bipolar cycle during which I am priveleged to experience the "tragic sense" of life. That I can type this sentence is due entirely to the meds. Before I went on my meds, I often would become profoundly silent, totally absorbed in the "it" of the "this is it." This happened when I was manic as well as when I was depressed. The splendid and terrible beauty of it all does leave one quite speechless. There is a sort of peril leaving aside words and thought to contemplate the thisness of it, the "that thou art," as the Vedantic sages had it.
Blogging is an odd occupation or preoccupation. Even tho' there is no external editor to set deadlines, I feel an obligation to post, like a reporter on a beat, even tho' all I'm reporting on is my own belly button lint. Blogging is outwardly directed, which makes it feel like journalism, albeit of a idiosyncratic not to mention hubristic sort. I think about my audience when I write for my blog; I chortle and rub my hands together like a villian or mad scientist when I think up a new idea, in anticipation of the reaction it might receive when I post it. I feel like I missed a deadline when I don't post on an event or on an occasion for which I had something in mind. But much of what I've had to say of late seems insufficiently thoughtful, reflexive, more concerned with witticism than wisdom, more about counting coup with a good zinger than penetrating to the heart of the matter.
The poetry and the art are entirely inner directed; it's just me and the muse in there, wrestling like Jacob and the Angel. It happens when it happens. Always a shot in the dark. This is what I have been given to do in life; put words and images to that which cannot be expressed in words or images. A poet is a prophet without honor in his own country, a shaman without a tribe.
Blogging has forced me to face the fact that my writing, when not directed by the spirit possession I call my muse, is often no more than utilitarian and kind of clunky at that. I have made the decision that it is ok for purposes of blogging in relatively timely way, and I try not to fuss over my sentences. I let go a lot of things I'd like to do on the blog, because there is an actual life to be lived.
I do go on rather, for a man who thinks he has nothing to say.
*Those of you who are familar with the film Amelie will recall that she kidnapped her father's garden gnome, and sent it around the world with a friend working as a stewardess for Air France. On her travels, the friend took polaroid pictures of the gnome posed in front of various world famous landmarks, and mailed them to Amelie's bemused father. I don't have a gnome, so I use the ten second shutter delay on my digital camera, and pose as my own gnome.
Note: This post began in emails sent to Morgan and Brother Merle.
