The mirror glass is still intact
Dividing us from all there is…
No metronome controls the tune:
The podium seems vacant, but
All clamour and would fain conduct.
The score mislaid, and not yet bowed,
The key itself is undefined…
The concert now is being tuned
By discordant soloists
Trumpets blown are all their own…
Not being a proficient musician I have only the currency of words. They are plucked out of silence. When I christened this blog ‘Careless Talk‘ it left the more important part, ‘Costs Lives’ implicit. That was because I hoped the life of writing, and other writers would complete it. It was an invitation to those who understood silence to gather round and illustrate the ‘cost of their lives’ from which were derived decisions to write. Instead I suspect it was misunderstood as the sanctioning of the trivial or ill-considered. So perceived, so it appeared, a soliloquy diverting at best, but inconsequential. No programme, no benefits, no bullet lists, little relevance. There is no time, these days, simply to be amused or diverted, or even provoked. All must be to some gain, or some progress. We are all in such a hurry going nowhere, elbowing our way as nicely as possible.
As the observant might notice my site is no longer ‘ Mavericks and Inspiration’ or ‘Quite Serious Fun’ but re-christened ‘Reality Redefined’. What I hope to keep in focus is the gulf each of us steps across to render wordless experience into words. Experience is wordless. It is the silence that gives shape to words, poetry most tellingly, but even the podium on which prose holds forth, around which characters strive to ‘reach goals’ plots ‘turn pages’, or polemic bangs its drum, starts with the first word ‘Once…’ or variants thereof.
Our voices are shaped by our lives, our words by the fit between the reality of our unique journey and what we distil as worthy of offering, valuable, quirky, creative or escapist. Choices govern. As writers we have a mission (though few would be brave enough to admit it.) Affirming our identity, our unique vision we set words down, and hope for one other to say ‘I get who you are, and what you are about.’ In writing we first find out about ourselves; in publishing we look in the mirror that reflects back.
It does not always reflect clearly. The perception in the mirror might be fogged due to the indiscriminate and clumsy words themselves, or, more often, the angle of light, the disposition of the glass slanted against a clear reflection, or a failure to stand still and let the image focus. Or it is just not what we expected, so we do not see at all.
If I have a passion it is to stand clear of coercion. If I have a skill I hope it is to make space for the perfection of the individual. It is why Involution- An Odyssey, a history of Western thought, tells the rosary beads of genius, on which our seeming certainties all rest. We have been indoctrinated by the soulless narrative that we have arrived here by accident, our ephemeral short lives meaningless in the greater scheme of creation. No wonder we all shout to contradict. Before we drown in the story we have collectively agreed upon, and make it true.
I disagree with almost all of it. Reality is not that story (or that stony). That is only the perception.
This blog will explore the difficulties of a Reality up against that Perception; how it occasions compromise, subverts the original, feeds on competition, persuades the unique to dress more soberly to pass muster. My invitation now is amended from the ‘careless talk’ to the ‘costed’ lives. Join in and shout, interrupt, contradict. Suggest guest posts or interviews that affirm your unique experiences and how (if you write) it shaped that writing? If you read what changed when you found that reflection? If consciousness creates then you share the responsibility of assent. Amend that assent, give us your caveats.
The spiritual is not a sentiment, or a posture, but a vigorous affirmation of your place in the symphony of consciousness. I hope to reaffirm. Please join me? Subscribe and add weight, every little helps.
Trivial does not make much sense
In symphonic consciousness…
Relationships are intricate.
A piccolo will penetrate
The deep ocean of a unison bass.