These past few months I’ve been absent and present, but mostly I’ve been living between the transitions.
It’s hard writing in between the transitions. Some things feel to personal, others feel too brief. All feel lightly fleeting. Poems are easier. I open up my notebook on nights when art surges in me, and the pen guides my way. Videos are even easier. Here, people are walking, there, is a painted alley. I click record on both.
But writing, you need to showcase a triumph or a defeat. To connect with the reader, you need to express your ideas, whether abstract or concrete, and then render them meaningful and substantial. There have been true and honest moments in my life these past few months, but they do not feel concrete in my memory. The only difference between them and all my other memories is that I’ve tried to hold on to them more. They might not even be pulling away, but I keep a tight grip on them because I worry about their loyalty.
Last Sunday, our string ensemble was waiting in the back room, ready to go up on stage. The pre-show was the choir of women singing Christmas carols with the audience. Their last piece was Silent Night. Here we were, all clad in black clothes and black shoes, standing with our instruments on the old wooden floor. Light seemed inexplicably abundant, and the soft chords of the chorus floated around our ears, stroking them as air would. It was, a beautiful moment, a tranquil moment, a limitless moment. You could not tell if your consciousness was with your resting instrument, or the voices of the choir, or the indistinct stare of the other musicians, or even the black and white portrait of the man hanging on the opposing wall.
And so it seems the most beautiful moments are the hardest to grasp; humans feel too much! And all the others, we feel too little, and thus, they are equally as hard to grasp!
Over the years, I’ve slowly distanced myself away from writing morally-oriented posts. It is as much the strain of character as it is the exploration of the conscious abstract. Believe me, I can be quick to judge, selfish, temperamental, and irrational. But writing helps me explore another side of my vision. And so, as increasingly hard it is to write in non-poetic style, I thank this opportunity to be able to touch as closely as I can the absences and the presents.