After 12/7/2011, this blog will no longer be updated, although content will remain. Please visit my new blog at Hidden Latitudes.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Why I Write

I used to
write to remember
as if
by putting words on paper
I could at some point in the
future reconstitute flesh, heat, light
like adding water to orange juice concentrate
or thawing out an embryo. But
I found
I could often recognize
only the words written about a thing
with no more depth than the typeface
on an old-fashioned business card.
I could not remember the thing itself.
Certainly not the deep beneath the words.
for a while I wrote to chronicle,
with spare and lean prose
drawing fine-line portraits of what
I had seen and heard
with the India ink of consonant and vowel.
But as
my eyes grow dim and
motes swim across my vision
like diaphanous fairies in the slanting
evening light through the blinds,
as the voice of a friend and the
burble of a mountain brook
begin to sound disturbingly similar
to my failing ears, I find that it seems
to write of things
which my senses will tell me are not so.
So now
I write not what I remember,
or see, or hear.
I write
to be
at least for a moment
in the deepest part of me
   the prophecy in a sun breaking over the sea
   the love in the salty tasting skin of her neck
   the persistence of a full moon scudding between clouds
   the eloquence of a tear rolling down a young boy’s face

No longer
depending on my synapses,
my eyes, my ears
victims of a life lived
with a continuous diminuendo.


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