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poet and mystic side quest

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Madison Scott-Clary
2019-08-25 20:54:46 -07:00
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<div class="vis"></div>
<div class="moving-on"><a class="pulse" href="/46">And so we come to a place between.</a></div>
<audio autoplay loop controls src="/confusion.mp3"></audio>
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> Do you feel better, now?
Not really. Just a different kind of melancholy.
Not really. Just a <a class="pulse" href="/poet-and-mystic">different kind of melancholy</a>.
> Ain't that just the way of things?

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---
date: 2019-08-22
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 39
---
<div class="verse">Here is the difference betwixt the poet and the mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for a moment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols are fluxional; all language is vehicular and transitive, and is good, as ferries and horses are, for conveyance, not as farms and houses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistake of an accidental and individual symbol for an universal one.</div>
Let's talk about writing.
> Pretty.
> If you'd like. We still have a few others on the list, don't forget.
I didn't write it.
Would you let me?
> I know.
I scramble through great heaps of words and sounds to try and at least pin some of them to fleeting symbols. Maybe then I'll be able to learn to see more of the accidental and individual symbols.
> Too many words, too many sounds.
Yes.
> You wrote four pieces about the winds coming down over the foothills near Boulder (for, of all things, wind quartet), just to try and capture one ecstatic experience.
I like those. I like the result.
> You like the first two, most of all. They remind you of how hollow you felt, how you could feel the wind blow through you, vibrating your soul like the pipe of an organ, exciting you to ever higher harmonics.
Yes.
> But then you kept writing.
Yeah. I make a terrible poet.
> You make a terrible mystic. Your poetry's just okay.
> Of course not.

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weight: 10
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> Do you ever worry that maybe he should be forgiven?
<div class="verse">
There's some duality between sources of meaning,
Between the types of stories we use to back identity.
It's not quite good &amp; bad or light &amp; dark,
Though I'm not yet sure just how to define it.
Oh, *<a href="/38" class="pulse">constantly</a>*.
Dad used to punish the dogs
by locking then in the basement.
If he was really mad,
he'd toss then down there by the scruff.
Mom moved me &amp; her dogs to a new house &mdash;
moved us three days early during the divorce.
Her dog punched my ex stepdad in the crotch the night before,
the nut-shot to end all nut-shots, &amp; our time there.
Few things make me feel as deeply about life as parenthood,
even if it's just me caring for my dogs.
Some reminders of that are intense enough to be raw, painful,
salt in the wounds of mortality, maybe, or the ache of maternal love.
The meaning behind the story of me &amp; my dogs
comes with a story of its own, or maybe several.
It's bound up in stories to come,
&amp; these stories nest infinitely deep.
Remembering that &amp; shaping that,
It's a part of making the meaning in my life.
This isn't better against worse,
it's not mom against dad.
It's not a dichotomy at all, really,
now that I think about it.
It's something subtler, comfortably complex, a topic of its own.
I guess it's just meaning &amp; self.
</div>

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---
date: 2019-08-20
weight: 11
---
> Do you ever worry that maybe he should be forgiven?
Oh, *<a href="/38" class="pulse">constantly</a>*.

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---
date: 2019-08-22
weight: 39
---
<div class="verse">Here is the difference betwixt the poet and the mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for a moment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols are fluxional; all language is vehicular and transitive, and is good, as ferries and horses are, for conveyance, not as farms and houses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistake of an accidental and individual symbol for an universal one.</div>
> Pretty.
I didn't write it.
> I know.
I scramble through great heaps of words and sounds to try and at least pin some of them to fleeting symbols. Maybe then I'll be able to learn to see more of the accidental and individual symbols.
> Too many words, too many sounds.
Yes.
> You wrote four pieces about the winds coming down over the foothills near Boulder (for, of all things, wind quartet), just to try and capture one ecstatic experience.
I like those. I like the result.
> You like the first two, most of all. They remind you of how hollow you felt, how you could feel the wind blow through you, vibrating your soul like the pipe of an organ, exciting you to ever higher harmonics.
Yes.
> But then you kept writing.
Yeah. I make a terrible poet.
> You make a terrible mystic. Your poetry's just okay.

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 46
---
<img alt="Growth" src="/growth.jpg" style="width: 100%; max-height: 100%" />
<small>"Growth" by <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Cadmiumtea">Julian Norwood</a></small>
-----
<div class="verse">Used to be you and I daily would walk
through the fields out back of the house and talk
for hours, spilling words and emotions.
These walks were our daily devotions
to each other over the years.
The fields, dotted with ponds, were our space.
We tramped those trails strung like lace
along shores and through tall grass,
murmuring now like winds, chattering now like brass
in some changeful duet.
You'd tell me about the geese in the sky,
would watch me stand still and not ask why
the birds scared me to pieces,
even as we dodged around their feces
littering the trails.
You'd put up with my fickle interests,
running with me, or stopping to see what arrests
my attention. You'd follow all of my changes
and change along with me through all the ranges
of our shared experience.
You'd tell me of your meditation,
I'd talk of my fears of stagnation.
You'd always smile so kindly to me,
and I'd always feel so free
in our companionship.
And over time, those walks got slower,
shorter, less frequent, or over
far too soon, though no less meaningful
as we spent our time together in cheerful
conversation or kind quiet.
We each seemed to be going our separate ways,
with me branching out, exploring different lays
of different lands, and you turning inwards,
exploring lines of thought you never put in words,
at least not that you told me.
And then one day, we once more went out walking
and though it took a while, you got to talking.
You told me of how you sat, quiet and alone,
waiting for the time you might turn to stone
and be completely still at last.
You told me how as you sat, the room lengthened,
curved around, turned on you --- strengthened,
it seemed, by your very presence ---
and amid all of that gathered pleasance,
bit you in half.
You told me how, as part of you died
in that moment, the rest of you spied,
it seemed, on this very ending.
You told me you thought that this rending
was the end of something big.
I listened in silence. What could I say?
The things you were telling me, walking that day
were strangely shaped and didn't make sense.
Or if they did, they did so around corners as pretense,
perhaps, subtext, allusion, metaphor.
You were right, though, I could hear it in your voice.
There was finality, there, which spoke of a choice
already made. Endings were writ on your face,
your hands, and your steps --- your very pace
spoke of completion.
I replied to that sense rather than your words.
"While you look up to the geese and see only birds,
I see omens and my doom spelled in vees.
You speak of rooms and cleaving, but please,
tell me, are you leaving?"
We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,
and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond
as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,
took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,
and closed your eyes.
Beginnings are such delicate times
and I very nearly missed it, no chimes
to announce the hour of your leaving.
As it was, there was no time for believing
or not in the next moments.
Your fingers crawled beneath the soil
and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.
Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,
Spelling subtle incantations and charms
to the chaos of growth.
You bowed your head and from your crown
sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,
soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.
The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems
soon arched skyward.
You sprouted and grew, taking root
in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.
Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.
Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime
of indecency.
Your face, your face! In your face was such peace
as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease
on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.
I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts
as your final display showed.
Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.
Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole
bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,
your fingers, knees, and toes stood
as thirsty roots.
I stood a while by the tree that was you,
then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew
about time, transformation, death and change.
I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,
your gentle apotheosis.
Then I walked home, quiet and numb.
No, not numb, per se, but perhaps dumb.
Dumb of words, dumb of emotions. Quiet.
I expected turmoil, some internal riot,
I got nullity.
Who, after all, if I cried out,
would hear my wordless shout
among the still trees and rustling leaves?
Who hears? Who cares? Who perceives
this non-grief?
You, my friend, are still there.
I walk the fields every day, passing where
you changed into something new.
I marvel at you, at how you grew
into something wholly different.
Used to be you and I daily would walk
through the fields out back of the house and talk.
Now, it's just me, alone, quiet, thinking
of you by the shore, forever drinking
of sweet water.</div>

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 47
---
<div class="verse">A flash of coppery sweetness,
A clearing of the sinuses,
A burst of unnamed colors,
A rush of creativity, of wonder,
Velvety softness, a low hum,
And then the wave recedes.</div>

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 46
weight: 49
---
> You're not very focused.

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 46
weight: 50
---
How does one approach what one can't describe?

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---
type: serial
background: '#1f183a'
color: '#ccd'
quote: '#eef'
back: /38
---