It’s telling me to come forward.

I never want to lose what I have finally found.

This feeling emblazed inside
Every nerve like a firefly
Hovering above me
Glow glow, glowing divin

This is the time to give love

I feel a stirring deep within

Listen: Delerium - Euphoria (firefly) Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Oh wait, that’s a Madonna sound-alike.

Not who I meant to mention, how cliché.  Actually, I’m so more sophisticated than that.  Because, like, among my favorite lines of poetry is, from Musset, La nuit de mai

« L’homme n’écrit rien sur le sable

A l’heure où passe l’aquilon. »

translated by

“One can write nothing on black

At the hour of the eagle’s flight.”

What?!  OK, like, talk about poetic license!  And it’s not even poetic!  Does this make any sense in any stretch?  I’m missing something clearly.  My muse done part.

I’m no translator, and no poet, but I think I can get much closer to the line Musset actually wrote:

“Man writes nothing in the sand

At the hour the North wind passes.”

And suddenly, if not poetic justice than at least meaning.  Many levels of it, more I’m sure than I could ever name or could possibly make up from a bad translation.  Such is the desired nature of poetry, as all art.

I remember my first week of Art History 101, a huge lecture hall of 200+ at Arizona State, where we viewed a series of slides representing a thousand years of great art, with the “professor” reciting a blurb about precisely what each one meant in 2-minute elevator-speak.  This was what we were expected to categorize and memorize in the months to come in order to pass the final exam.

Obviously, I dropped, ASAP.

In other classes of equal passion I did not fair so wisely, mostly from coercion, monetary and otherwise. Though I ended up with an A average, first I got a C in sociology and a D in philosophy, scandalous!  Two other subjects I felt a strong interest in, and for similar reasons.  These intro courses, I now understand, had absolutely nothing to do with any reasonable curriculum of any of these respected disciplines.

It feels similar to reading the distorted lines of the translation of La nuit de mai.  How many people are reading that verse thinking it’s correct?  And then I think about the Bible.  But then, that’s another post entirely.

« L’homme n’écrit rien sur le sable

A l’heure où passe l’aquilon. »

The storm might last 2 hours or 2 days or 2 months, but until it’s over, you do not write.  Or if you write, you are prepared for annihilation, or really anything similar.  This means something to writers, for sure.  Or to anyone committed to self-knowledge.

But what about a universal application?  Maybe it’s close to what Naomi Klein named, Disaster Capitalism.  We make poor decisions during crisis, and the powers that shouldn’t be take advantage of this truth.

This is where reason is the only raft left.  But that’s been hijacked because here and now the most gifted at exploitation wins.

My closest ones sometimes worry at the amount of time I spend alone.  It’s surely not healthy, they attest.  Studies show social people live longer!  They may be right.  But where one sense is diminished another comes to flourish.  Or, maybe, I will not live as long.  Or maybe, the potential cost is worth it.

That’s what we call liberty.  Don’t set your expectations on me.  I am not my brother’s keeper, nor he mine. As soon as choice is lifted from the equation, tyranny is invited a foothold.  That’s far too high a cost for the average elephant.

Nonetheless, these studies that say being a recluse is unhealthy are full of peanuts.

Who are they studying exactly?  What about Einstein? Or Salinger, or Dickinson, or Proust?  All notable recluses.  Most of them quite unhealthy, ok, but not because of their recluseness.   No, that’s not a word.  But yes, recluses is the correct plural, stumped me too, because who ever thinks of them in plural?

And it’s  not that I’m comparing myself to them, the recluses or the geniuses.  The point is, we’ve got to stop treating people like robots and case studies, and start treating them like potential geniuses, or poets, or maybe even just great lovers, because then maybe the world might find that utopia organically, which so many would like to regulate and certificate and modulate.  This is what John Taylor Gatto has been trying to get us to rally around for about a decade now.

Co-create, that’s the buzz word of New Ageville.  But, what about the workin man y’all? The New Agers may have the love part down, but reason and liberty have greatly suffered.

So many are, to some degree, folks now living off the state, or at least supporting that notion.  It’s human nature, no matter how corrupt that sugar daddy is, you don’t see the bitches criticizing, n’est-ce pas?

Until we erase our own self-interest from the equation, we can never get a true picture.  If you think you’ve done that, or it’s easy to do, you are as delusional as the sugar daddy and/or the bitches. That’s what the Buddhist monks atop a hill train to do for decades in conditions perfectly suited to this sort of endeavor.  And still rarely claim anything close to transcendence.

But the whole point of this requiem is to digress.  Because where else might love and reason meet but in some ephemeral hallowed ground?   Maybe a requiem before they completely die off to each other might revive their efforts.

What I really want to express, which will clearly take another post to transgress . . . .

The problem with the world right now in a holiday nut cake:  We are trying to use the State to correct for an absolute truth:  Women need men far more than men need women.

And I know many women who will have a knee-jerk reaction to that statement.  Come on and kick it loves, let’s bring in the New Year, right!  We can’t change what we don’t acknowledge.

I’m pretty sure that’s what they meant by yin and yang, feminine and masculine, poetry and reason.

But what do I know of love or liberty?