I mourn the loss of the moments of lucidity.
When the words run like liquid gold. When joy envelopes me. When clarity ceases to be a mystery.
Then Elegiac spreads its wings and my vision falls once again into the shadows.
What I saw disappears and I am left wandering through the rest of the day stumbling like a blind man after elusive Braille.
I am so tired. Yet I cannot let go of what I thought I glimpsed beyond the veil.
Another winged companion joins Elegiac. It alights upon my other shoulder, a weight so heavy and cold that it seeps into the very marrow of my bones.
Its name is Lethargy.
So here I am again with myself
as it seems I will forever be,
waiting for something to happen,
time lost in creativity.
A look in the mirror,
a drooling pen scratching on the page.
At the end when I lift my hand,
this somehow dissipates my rage.
January 18, 1995
The Skabebjerg (Danish – Skabe meaning “to create,” bjerg meaning “berg”):
The Diurnum and Key:
(if you can
December 13, 1984 (age 17)
i am a shell of who or what I once was
sucked dry by the past’s creativity
walls adorned with art painted 20 years ago following me from one residence to the next like fading memories
hard drive and heart filled with songs and dreams recorded yet unreleased Langston’s birds with broken wings
journals of endless musings
runes of my becoming
yellowing with age
what I do now seems to falter beneath the weight of what I have done
known only by me
and a precious few
who seem so surprised by the truth
the responsibilities of today
the roles I am forced to play somehow block the artist I am from view
i climb your stares like an overweight guest
the effort and this present leave me breathless
“And he gained favor with both . . .”
These ancient words I quoth
Caused some mysterious seed to grew
Mind travel down to hand renew
Jerk and bounce to rhythm and blue
And Elvis and Cash and Mozart too
Creations, revelations, orations, vocations
Inscriptions, descriptions, restrictions, citations
Sensations, elations, relations, oh stop!
Babblings, dabblings, in a bumbling bebop
Stirring stipends of a sticky, stoney stew
Return and the “bing” to the third line “grew”
People pleasured smile pat me on the back
Works piling up clouds a grandiose stack
A monument moaning midst mighty mounds
Pride inner gloating glip could bring it crashing down
And I wonder, yes I ponder, the most peculiar state
Of a man who is gifted, rifted, irate
A sort of Midas touch in a noncorrosive gold
I did not ask nor does it lie in some memory cold
Sold, old, road, why chose it to abode
In this vessel of such an irksome mold
Seems to happen, snap in, where’ere I lay my finger
Hand, plan, brand, I seem to score a ringer.
Though if to the wells of seventeen succumb
The fate of Midas will be mine own outcome
Friends shall quick frozen, strangers melt and ran
Ah! The search continues, issues, as to
The moving of this hand.
August 23, 1989
Some mornings I awake with the smoke over me.
The burn of creativity has passed and I am
I hear but my ears are tuned within.
I speak but I am far away.
I see but my eyes are filmed by the haze within.
I wait in the cold for the flame to light the fire again.
November 6, 1999
There is a Goethe quote that has been very important to me over the years. Currently, while I am in the midst of several major life transitions, it is a good reminder for me to not lose hope and courage. I offer it here for all:
Until one is committed
There is hesitancy, the chance to draw back
Concerning all acts of initiative (and Creation)
There is one elementary truth
The ignorance which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
That the moment that one definitely commits ones self
Then Providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one
That would never otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events issues from the decision
Raising in one’s favor all manner
Of unforeseen incidents and meetings
And material substance
Which no one could have dreamt
Would have come your way.
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.