kiyo:
Photo: www.richmondparklondon.co.uk.
It’s spring. What better time than to restart my blog as I continue along a path greater than my writing—greater than me. What better day to drop the needle on the record (endlessly spinning) than on the day after his birthday? The day after I’m done celebrating the man whose love (re) opened me to the love of the Universe—the love of God.
One true love equals all other loves—feeling one allows you to flow into the others the way the multitude of tiny streams flow into rivers that flow into the ocean. It’s not correct to say the stream is the ocean but it’s not correct to say it’s not, either. My love for him shot through and over it all—I had no more pride or self-defense. I was destroyed and built back up again—and it felt great. It hurt so good. I was alive. Impulsive, silly…seductive.
Before we got together I wrote about him often, but once we started, the words disappeared. They came back when we were apart, which was when I realized that’s what words are for—they are the tiny bridges that lead us from meaning to meaning. They fill up the moments of without. I half-hated their role as substitute for his presence, but poetry was the only thing that compared to our love affair as a sublime force I helped orchestrate.
By arranging my words just so, I can have them reveal the void that makes up their center. I can show them for the fake out liars that they are. I can make them fall against one another and fade into nothingness, my meaning as wisp-like as a crescent moon, escaping into space.
My words bide time, they entertain and occupy and chew the fat until its gone.
As they wait for The One who Understands.
