Pencil in Hand # 8

The Line & Poetic Disturbance on the Strangest of Days.

I am disturbed by my actions ... or action, rather. Perhaps it was the overwhelming beauty of the scenic day or perhaps the first hints of my soon to be discovered penchant for random and unexplainable behaviour had decided to surface without warning. Regardless, for a brief moment my self no longer knew itself. Overtaken by impulses of minor malice; distraught by thoughts enticing yet intrusive and expository ... never mind. Fuck it, for the next thing I knew I had already done it. I had come - to a climaxing conclusion and in doing so, had introduced a split moment of spontaneous madness (which I now grin about) to my day of solitude.

I didn't have to work today.

"Take a moment. Stop thinking thus forcing the poem which lies before you in all its exposed splendour. Take a moment. To breathe it before you adapt it.”

Look at the line.

Dividing a world in half with two magical shades of blue. In the distance, the unfathomable distance ...(what?). The bottom half, with its dark tone of mystery continuously flowing without interruption. Its posture is firm and fluent. Almost at ease with its insuperable force. Confident, strong and silent. All the while made more ferocious due to its instigating and inviting texture. So easy to enter the wavy abyss yet easier to wallow in its pending deception of secure lodging.

Look at the line.

Dividing a world in half with two magical shades of blue. In the distance, the unreachable distance ...(what?). The top half, made tender by its brotherly undertone, blows a subdued sense of comfort. Its character reeks of supreme wisdom yet untapped. Beckoning a soft welcome to all willing to undertake the utmost sacrifice of leaving and never returning. Camouflaged by the appearance of enticing intrigue thus bearing the impressionable softness of truth, answers and eternal peace. All the while forever undiscovered. So easy to enter the cloudy abyss yet easier to wallow in its pending illusion of secure lodging.

In comparison, my now meaningless action had lost all meaning and weight. Bulimic importance. And so, with a few newly mentally imprinted words of knowledge by Henry Miller;

"Man is not at home in the universe, despite all the efforts of philosophers and metaphysicians to provide a soothing syrup. Thought is still a narcotic. The deepest question is why. And it is a forbidden one. The very asking is in the nature of cosmic sabotage."

my day had morphed itself into a journey of self/soul exploration. Heavily addicted to my own thoughts, I rode a wave of thoughtless observation. Breathing in a new continent from the rocks above.

-YB? 02/02/05