Pith
August 3rd 2004 - A real journal entry
I am camped out by a large pond in the south of Maine. As I look across the way I see the reflection of the opposing shore. The temperature here rivals that of a summer day much farther south, which is odd considering we’re not far from Canada.
Even though I find the weather here quite uncomfortable, it takes but a moment to subside, thoughts properly directed, that is. Though grand such an illusion might seem at first, a luxury even, it is not one I would embrace, or rather endorse, for I do not presume to invoke it intentionally.
The cyan skies above fade grey as I look on. Leaves blast themselves from the trees in all a colorful splendor, swirl, shrivel and die. They fall to all sides of me. I continue to watch. First, frost, then ice, begins to form on the tall green blades and pine needles, continuing its expanse outward from my position in a quick radial fashion as snow piles itself vigorously onto the banks, swept fiercely by the sharp winds. The pond becomes opaque with murk and succumbs to its surroundings with an abrupt halt as the coldness freezes over the water’s surface bringing to it a lustrous shine that quickly fogs with gloom. A baby robin, flightless, fallen from atop a nearby tree hobbles about quirkily, confounded as all by this slip of time, and yet I see that I’m the only one who’s actually been fooled, for I as I turn to look at it more intently, the landscape around me returns to its original coloration. In fact, I know better, for, surely, it hadn’t changed to start. Gone were the snow-covered conifers and the pallid reflections of a hollow sky on a glazed rink, for, you see, they had never been.
An unintentional drift of consciousness, had it not been for that bird, the only real aspect, my daydreaming may very well have otherwise continued. That seems to be the way it happens anymore. O, How far removed I am from those days of winter past, and yet, how I dwell on them still.
And so now, with the muse of the past's delusion still favorably whole in my mind and senses,
I open the pages of my notebook once more and draw swift my pen,
intending to restore order and bring reason, of some magnitude, to the past year’s events,
which have still such a great hold on me that I fear I can shake them by no other means...
than this laughably pointless yet (for reasons that are unclear to me) hopeful catharsis. -
------------------------------
Eh, yep...
So, I guess I might start writing in my journal again every once in a while.
Though, I'm fairly confident that it won't matter to anyone...
Except for maybe every once in a while when someone checks to see if I've actually written anything yet.
I think.
Signed,
Truly, simply, me.
------------------------------
"Grief seeks reconciliation, and this reconciliation must be suffered through. It is not enough for one to call out words of consolation across a gap presumed to separate the aridity of one who suffers from the verdure of the one who doesn't."
I am camped out by a large pond in the south of Maine. As I look across the way I see the reflection of the opposing shore. The temperature here rivals that of a summer day much farther south, which is odd considering we’re not far from Canada.
Even though I find the weather here quite uncomfortable, it takes but a moment to subside, thoughts properly directed, that is. Though grand such an illusion might seem at first, a luxury even, it is not one I would embrace, or rather endorse, for I do not presume to invoke it intentionally.
The cyan skies above fade grey as I look on. Leaves blast themselves from the trees in all a colorful splendor, swirl, shrivel and die. They fall to all sides of me. I continue to watch. First, frost, then ice, begins to form on the tall green blades and pine needles, continuing its expanse outward from my position in a quick radial fashion as snow piles itself vigorously onto the banks, swept fiercely by the sharp winds. The pond becomes opaque with murk and succumbs to its surroundings with an abrupt halt as the coldness freezes over the water’s surface bringing to it a lustrous shine that quickly fogs with gloom. A baby robin, flightless, fallen from atop a nearby tree hobbles about quirkily, confounded as all by this slip of time, and yet I see that I’m the only one who’s actually been fooled, for I as I turn to look at it more intently, the landscape around me returns to its original coloration. In fact, I know better, for, surely, it hadn’t changed to start. Gone were the snow-covered conifers and the pallid reflections of a hollow sky on a glazed rink, for, you see, they had never been.
An unintentional drift of consciousness, had it not been for that bird, the only real aspect, my daydreaming may very well have otherwise continued. That seems to be the way it happens anymore. O, How far removed I am from those days of winter past, and yet, how I dwell on them still.
And so now, with the muse of the past's delusion still favorably whole in my mind and senses,
I open the pages of my notebook once more and draw swift my pen,
intending to restore order and bring reason, of some magnitude, to the past year’s events,
which have still such a great hold on me that I fear I can shake them by no other means...
than this laughably pointless yet (for reasons that are unclear to me) hopeful catharsis. -
------------------------------
Eh, yep...
So, I guess I might start writing in my journal again every once in a while.
Though, I'm fairly confident that it won't matter to anyone...
Except for maybe every once in a while when someone checks to see if I've actually written anything yet.
I think.
Signed,
Truly, simply, me.
------------------------------
"Grief seeks reconciliation, and this reconciliation must be suffered through. It is not enough for one to call out words of consolation across a gap presumed to separate the aridity of one who suffers from the verdure of the one who doesn't."