I'm not saying this is the best way to write for everybody, but it it is for me:
In chaos.
In total chaos.
Right now, the mojo is working.
It's called Dionysian art: Yes you do get Appolonian Artists, but those people have intellectual constipation.
This is Dionysian, it's the opposite.
I. THE LAND
A hefty slug of whiskey concealed in a half glass of coke, furtively poured while the Madam of the House was elsewhere engaged - and then he took another squiz at the glass and thought, hang on, there's place for more, which brought it up to fifty percent Scottish and fifthly zero percent coke, to the point where the plaBce reeked of whiskey and with a smug look on his wrecked dial he sat back, knocked it down, smiled uncomprehensblingly at Jane Austin on the TV, and just -- let it flow, baby!
Look at this:
It's a puzzle. An unfinished 1500-piece puzzle, in progress, being done by a friend of mine.
What do you see?
Clumps of puzzle pieces, floating in the void: but as he finds more pieces that link with each other, the more coherence he achieves. Small clumps merge with big clumps; small clumps gain greater significance in bigger clumps.
And so it grows.
Until you have a picture that makes sense. I've waited for this to happen. I knew it would happen. Sometimes it happens quickly, sometimes it takes longer, but it'll happen.
Phrases in the void. Oh, that's a good one. But not for today. Store it away. Maybe for tomorrow - and maybe for never. But - just - stick it in that pigeonhole over there - yes, I know it's not in alphabetical order (or any order at all, actually) but just - stick it into a pigeonhole - you never know. One day. Maybe.
The Cardinal wears a ring. It's not just any old ordinary ring. It's a hefty metal seal from the days before ordinary people could write. Some literate underling would scratch out the words on a piece of parchment and then along comes the Cardinal and the underling melts a bit of red wax onto the paper and
-thump!-
The Cardinal impresses the die of his ring into the hot wax and hey presto, you have a Papal Decree. Just like that. Maybe he can read it, maybe he's an impostor and he can't. Doesn't matter now - it's the Law.
The Law, the Law, the Law, the Law. It's the Law, you bastards, and don't you overstep it or I'll have your head in a box. A box, a box, a box, a box. I'll have your head in a box!
Nice!
TWO
Two young men are standing on a cliffside at Dover, sizing each other up. The crystal sea heaves and twinkles below. They are dying to punch each other's lights out and that lady off to one side is the Prize. She knows it, they know it, the game is on. But it's been snowing. And the snow (little though it is) burns and blinds and trips them up. Will they do it? They circle, gently brushing each other's faces with very sharp claws.
-Nah, everyone's too damn polite but the tension is unbearable. They can't do it, so they feign politeness but in fact they just don't have the balls. By the time they're ready to back down, everyone understands that it's just a face-saving exercise. Ho hum.
Staggering to the bathroom to make a pee, I try to maintain a straight line. Why? Because walking the line to prove your sobriety is an accepted protocol out on the road but it's so nerve-wracking that it could cause you to lose balance and fall into a damn bush. You know.
Because of those eyes, those eyes, those eyes, boring into my back - I can feel the heat - why the hell do I need to maintain a driver's sobriety in my own lounge?
Who cares if I destroy my shins on the coffee table, or lose a toe or two on the way out?
Damn, at the airport they offered me a wheelchair and I declined. I declined! - What an asshole!
Who cares if I break my shoulder on the doorpost?
The world intrudes. This is a crucial point. If I break concentration now I may never recover the thought. Out on the edges of my consciousness a cold mist is gathering. This is my central point, right over here, you see, and the pieces around it are merely peripheral, but out there is THE MIST, and it will close in if I let it. Focus. If I connect this to that - no, not that, but THAT… The devil's in the detail.
The doorbell rings. It's an ugly little dwarf - a Karapatkele - a short ugly man in a candy-striped tall top hat.
You aren't real, are you?
You're just a ridiculous attempt to break my concentration.
Beat the dwarf!
Beat the dwarf!
Whack him right out of the front garden,
over the gate,
down the road,
round the corner,
tumbling tumbling,
into
a
ditch.
II. THE SEA
The dark sea
Heaves
Under a dull moon. Ominously.
Who knows what lurks.
I, who saw two men circle each other like boxers at the start of a fight,
On the edge of this cliff a few days ago
I behold this scene.
Cold and clammy is the air
Vacant is the stage.
But for me and the sea.
A deep-throated, long-drawn-out wail comes across the water from OUT THERE, somewhere. It's the Kraken
Who slumbered many centuries on the sea bed, then woke - just this morning, can you believe it - to answer the call of a lover
A lover
That came across the water
She heard that wail and she just KNEW
this had to be him
It took her three days to surface
Swimming with the utmost concentration
Consistently
And when she surfaced and the water ran from her eyes she saw
Not her long longed-for lover, but a light house
Just a light house
Not the mighty male Kraken!
The light house bellowed again
And what had seemed to be his cry
Was now the mocking sound of a light house!
Can you imagine the rage
The fury, anger, hurt, shame
Run, don't laugh - She is angry now!
In your deepest darkest night-hour
Or in the blindingly bright sunlight
Never before, such anger
Run, pathetic little scribbler
You were not designed for such a confrontation …
III. CONCLUSION
Old Walt Whitman said (I have quoted him before)
“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes)”
The mind can encompass anything.
The slaves who crossed the desert from Egypt to Israel
That was not Sinai - -that was the desert of the mind
Tabula Rasa
On which a new nation was written.
Entire epics were composed in silence.
You can compose in a vortex of noise
By wrapping yourself in silence
But silent,
You must be.
___________________________________________
© Harry Friedland MARIMBA December 2022
