These last few weeks have been amazing here at the bay. Mostly because of
the weather. Winter becoming spring is all about cataclysmic, raging, cloud
ripping winds and soft new sunrise, silvering at the water's motion. So, let’s talk about
the weather. All year long, we do it. We talk about the temperature, the precipitation, the
barometric pressure. We further muse on the dark blurry storm clouds, deep powder of the latest snowfall, soft
mist of summer rain that clings to skin like a kiss of a lover, the hot parched
breath of noon density of unrelenting heat, perhaps in a desert, the last frost bite on the cherry blossoms...or the humid
vapor lingering after a tropical downpour; all lovely descriptives, somewhat
imaginative yet predictable...unlike the weather, who is not entirely
predictable, in spite the mammoth effort of meteorological science...
But enough small talk.
Let’s dismiss the reserved salutations to weather’s aesthetics.
Instead, let’s get intimate with the wild of the weather. The real story of
weather is the unrestrained lust
for movement, for doing, for flow. An act of weather. Like act of writing, act of
lovemaking, act of philosophy. The act of weather is not in the reflective, not the narrative,
not the inquiry and summation. That I leave for the art - art of reflection,
art of narration, art of poetry or art of seduction...No. The weather verbs,
moves...it does...it stirs, lingers...drifts and
swarms...approaches...exfoliates, yes...falls off in languor, in love's
waiting. It charges, swells, furls and localizes...it bursts, plunders, erupts,
pauses and fidgets, it takes, seizes, embarks and plunges...it wanes and
licks...it passes through time...never static as all ferments in fecund act of
weather... In spite of our articulation of the apparent conditions of weather,
against scientific nomenclature and poetic turns of phrase, the act of weather
is an unfettered, excreted, inevitable, devastating consummation.
Like the weather, in writing, I acquiesce to incompleteness, to
possibility of chaos, of jouissance, to sensibilities that surrender to the
wild and the untamed. The text is my maker, in density that dissolves and
re-assembles. A fleeting graze of fingers, fingers of eternity, a touch of the
inescapable wild. Small vestiges flood with conversation before words, in my
fleshness, among the innumerable accoutrements
that tie me to this place. A ribbon disentangles from the garment of
duration, in flection. How do I hold myself together? By way of moist suction,
precariously unattached yet juxtaposed at the voluptuous touching of tides. Our
limbs intertwine, our loins an estuary, and instead of fall, I am lifted. Not
flying, but lifted.
I wait softly, organize my body into a pattern around the contours
of words, anticipate with breath abated. I wait patiently and am rewarded, in
slow insistence the words descend, I hold them inside me until the fullness
extends past the mounting of pleasure, words glide toward me in an emergent
tide, a peculiar wetness of the blue ink delivers me, I am gifted by the text.
Like the weather, I cannot be still. Caught in both fluidity and
stillness, concentration and motion, concentration in motion. Words suspended
in disbelief collect, swell at my bountiful edges, with whispering touch, with
proffered presence. Long enough to invite a dense experience of almost joining,
a fleeting, fugitive sensation of almost certainty, almost completeness, I
swell into the gaps and then, released, I surrender to movement. A quiet
corpulence, a dominant forging of a shape that was always there, husked
abrasions pull at me in small intervals, a voluptuous touching of moments that
linger in between. Preciously hung, the constellation of our limbs aligned, the
Pleiades of pleasure. Deeply felt, as they are transient, words become part of
my fabric, the integral part of my flesh.
The text, itself an act, is an event, an entity, a body, a place
generative of possibilities rather then epistemological conclusions. It
facilitates integration of lived experience and reflective inquiry in an act of
philosophy. The resulting poetics attests to the power of the gap between what
is an empirically evidenced meaning communicated through linguistic structure
and the surrounding sensual landscape of the kinesthetic register. It is an
existential field, deeply furrowed, where seeds of experience nourish our core
with ferocity that pushes the boundaries of skills at our disposal. An absolution of a body and its multitude of sensations, freed from duty and obligation, yet responsible,
response-able, to the moment of pure duration. The wrench of harrowing force
that would have us draw blood at the want of living, the multitudes of
resonances that come from the flesh, the scalding most aware sequencing,
phrasing of going from moment to moment, the temporal tangents of living in
the flesh.
Yet, today, there is no weather to be had here... no. Here, this, is an act of
writing that agitates, perturbs, slips and collects, ornates and shines, urges
and oozes, mocks and glooms...clusters and stirs.
Stirs
the whorlen soul.
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