Autumn Light Lies Sealed in an Open Casket Held Aloft by the Clamouring Branches of Bleached Aspens
It has finally started to cool off here in New York. You actually need a coat and hat in the mornings and until nine-ish, your breath trails out behind you in a vaporous stream. Even lukewarm coffee steams in the sunlight streaming in through the tinted glass. The sound of traffic carries about fifteen steps further.
The majority of the trees are still green but that late fall balance between a true vibrant chlorophyll green and a starburst yellow has finally tipped in favor of the latter.
On campus people stop and chat for shorter periods of time. A quick "how, how are you. Nice tights." The morass of social awkwardness compounded by the shivering autumn dirge: a restless melody singing so skillfully of transience without ever once invoking the falseset of hopes--returning home.
And still the world spins on: just another indolent, thin ochre leaf spiraling through the vacuum of space towards the inevitable abyss between dreamed recollections and the absence of even those few things the body exists solely to remember.
This state of perpetual dissatisfaction which I'll try to convince myself, against logical objections, is a recent development. But this state is not a state. In the same way existence is a concept about which we mistakenly speak as being present when it is, in fact, nothing more than a framework for commanding an uncommandable past. (Happiness and other lies whispered by memory-- lullabies against insomnia.)
There is nothing new under the sun. Between Dostoevksy and Tolstoy, the world has been distilled to language. We don't read them. They read us. We are Alyosha and Levin's forgotten dreams. Society would have an excuse for their obstinate ignorance. But it's there too, in the music of the Beatles. No excuse whatsoever.
I'm rambling. No direction, as usually. All that I know is that the other day I was asked when the last time I wrote was. I answered not the question asked but said the truth I hadn't know was true until it emerged from my lips: I can't write any more.
So what now, then. When one determines no worthwhile human endeavor except artistic creation. Yet one loses a certain necessary vitality of mind necessary for such an endeavor.
I read Murakami. I think him funny, endearing with sensibilities and a sense of the absurd reminiscent of my own. Is he a skilled writer? Yes. Is he masterful? On occasion. Is he a master? No. Is he timeless? Not even close.
We remember Mozart and forget Soleri on the question of mastery.
Outside of sentimentality there is nothing save mastery and failure.
So what now, then. What now?
The majority of the trees are still green but that late fall balance between a true vibrant chlorophyll green and a starburst yellow has finally tipped in favor of the latter.
On campus people stop and chat for shorter periods of time. A quick "how, how are you. Nice tights." The morass of social awkwardness compounded by the shivering autumn dirge: a restless melody singing so skillfully of transience without ever once invoking the falseset of hopes--returning home.
And still the world spins on: just another indolent, thin ochre leaf spiraling through the vacuum of space towards the inevitable abyss between dreamed recollections and the absence of even those few things the body exists solely to remember.
This state of perpetual dissatisfaction which I'll try to convince myself, against logical objections, is a recent development. But this state is not a state. In the same way existence is a concept about which we mistakenly speak as being present when it is, in fact, nothing more than a framework for commanding an uncommandable past. (Happiness and other lies whispered by memory-- lullabies against insomnia.)
There is nothing new under the sun. Between Dostoevksy and Tolstoy, the world has been distilled to language. We don't read them. They read us. We are Alyosha and Levin's forgotten dreams. Society would have an excuse for their obstinate ignorance. But it's there too, in the music of the Beatles. No excuse whatsoever.
I'm rambling. No direction, as usually. All that I know is that the other day I was asked when the last time I wrote was. I answered not the question asked but said the truth I hadn't know was true until it emerged from my lips: I can't write any more.
So what now, then. When one determines no worthwhile human endeavor except artistic creation. Yet one loses a certain necessary vitality of mind necessary for such an endeavor.
I read Murakami. I think him funny, endearing with sensibilities and a sense of the absurd reminiscent of my own. Is he a skilled writer? Yes. Is he masterful? On occasion. Is he a master? No. Is he timeless? Not even close.
We remember Mozart and forget Soleri on the question of mastery.
Outside of sentimentality there is nothing save mastery and failure.
So what now, then. What now?