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a word | midsummer, august 8. 08

Posted on Monday, September 1, 2008 at 01:37PM by Registered Commentersadi ranson-polizzotti | CommentsPost a Comment




   




It is officially Midsummer, which means that I am becoming officially depressed. Or perhaps I will. I can't say yet. It's something I am fighting as I learn that summer does not have to be the "end" of something but that rather, it can be a beginning. Any ending is also likewise a beginning. When we are awake, our waking life, is no less rich than our dream life. In fact, I could argue that my dream life is far more valuable and true than my waking life these days. My waking life is full of fact and work and sometimes hurt (miscommunications, the sort of thing that has you yearning and bending your ear to Glenn Campbell's Wichita Lineman, a song I have always loved, but found both comforting and sad at the same time. I won't spell out the lyrics here, but they do hurt in some way. You get all of the validation without the physical body. There is something ethereal in there, and I don't like it. At a certain point, one wants what is tangible. We all require "desperate validation" sometimes. And if we are lucky, if we are fortunate, and sometimes, if we ask, it is "desperately given". That is a ping and a ping back. Code: S.O.S.  Yes, save our souls, but being "saved" can mean so many different things. I have a poem called "saved" and in it, there is the line, "With a kiss you were tacit / and with a kiss, you were saved."  It may even be under the audio here. I can't recall. But that's not the point. 

So the point is that on this Friday August 8th, on this particular Midsummer's night I realize that time is bendable, stretchable, and fluid. That no matter how much man has tried to create some order around a thing that has no real "order" (for time is basically a concept we cannot truly understand, I think), we ascribe an arbitrary set of rules to it: 24 hours equals one day, seven of those equals one week, and etc.  It's arbitrary. I could just as easily say that seven hours are one week or the time between when I wake at five a.m. and can make a telephone call at eight-thirty a.m. can sometimes be an eternity and  such a profound disconnect that it can shock even me.

The question, I ask myself, during those long long hours (sometimes three hours can seem like thirty), is whether or not I am really "there". Am I "present" in the there where I want to be and what exactly does that mean anyway? It means quite simply, that time is fleeting when we are contented and with a loved one, and when distanced, time is forever and a mile may as well be three-thousand miles unless you can easily parse it because, again, at a certain point you need to have some tangible, physical contact. It's a paddle hitting the ball: ping, pong.

So where is my psyche these days? It is lost in the ether, perhaps? or is it fully rooted in the moment, as I write this now? I'd say I am fully rooted in the now, but as the Beach Boys said, I'm trying hard to send out those "Good Vibrations". Dylan said it best when he said "Tomorrow is a Long Time". It's interesting, because the more I listen to that song, and I do this a lot (more than is healthy: the song should come with a warning label - : caution: will make heart bleed), the more I think, no no no no no - tomorrow is a long PLACE.  Different thing entirely, but perhaps more what the song is about. Time, yes sure, time. But we can wait out time. But what do we do about place? And what if time is unbearable? We live in such social confines (don't go to work, it's Sunday!, etc, Rejoice! It's Friday!) Totally arbitrary. I don't rejoice on Fridays - what if i rejoice on Monday instead? Does that make me a rebel? Stupid? I don't know... I just know it makes me feel sometimes so very alone... lost in my own black hole, praying I am not there alone, that the greater force that took me - or to go back to the Midsummer night that we have before us... tonight I will dream. Last night, I dreamt of a game between children. One child said to the other, What do your freckles taste like? and the girl laughed. Asked again by her curious friend, she replied, casually, "Gingersnaps".  She did not know. She had never tasted one of her freckles. it just seemed like the right answer. What is the smell of your freckles? the other child then asked (all of this in my dream), and the girl said, "Basillica incense" and she knew this to be the case. She smelled of Basillica incense and tasted of amber and gingersnap. The other child, curious, curious enough to ask the question, then began to kiss the other child's arm, "tasting" the freckles. 

There was such joy in this. So simple a thing. Fellini knew it well with his Asa Nisi Masa. We sometimes find it, but perhaps we find it in the "inbetween". Perhaps our life is lived, for now anyway, in the pauses, in the nowhere and everywhere at once, in the somewhere that is nowhere, in the empty and undiscovered vessel that is chock full of precious incense. I believe that. The empty vessel so precious and so full all at once. Aren't we though?

Thanks for listening,

S.R.P. | August 8th, 6.46 p.m.

 

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