Gazing at the stars,
my right hand can
hold them all.
I close my eyes. Opening my awareness, the droning hum of the quiet library makes itself present.
Every quiet has its own sound. This one was interrupted, and I wrote the interruption down. Hearing quiet out is difficult business.
I wonder what my quiet sounds like. Never am I quiet. At least, never to myself. Whenever I talk, I become the elephant in the room. I can feel the blind man gazing uncomfortably, so I tend not to talk. Yet, even when I do not talk, my voice can be heard, tormenting me when I need it least.
A few times a year I remember the quiet-sound of the children’s section of the old Scarsdale public library. I can no longer hear it, and this perhaps makes it quite loud.
Sometimes I hear my quiet. It is a life-affirming sound. Marvelous, tranquil. But it is not really my quiet, is it? It is in any case ungrateful—always is it fleeing when I tell it to stay.
“Music is really life changing,” I notice to myself. “Yes, but in every moment,” I cannot help but clarify.
I can see, when certain tunes play, an island of complete bliss. Sometimes the sound of bliss reaches me, but it might be a siren’s call. In any case, it is a wonderland of pure possibility. Pure, without any actuality.
With this land in my sights, I continue my craft meticulously. Abundantly clear is landing inbound. Yet, inevitably, my creation fails me, and the land too it flees. Oh, so very loud.
It is not surprising to me that God is dead. On too many occasions have I recognized how intricate and masterfully-crafted my own creations are—especially those I fabricated in a hurry.
Have you heard the Ouroboros? You would know what I mean if you have. Who am I kidding, you probably have. Life, after all, is predictable.
“Sacred buildings must have sacred architects,” I think to myself. “Yes, and you know how that makes me feel.” I do. I am beginning to hear my quiet-sound.
Tōru Takemitsu is a great composer. Have you heard Toward the Sea? You would know what I mean if you have. Maybe you have! Life, after all, is full of surprises. And surprises come from the most surprising places.
In a sky of gray clouds
I can still see the stars that
I keep in my hand
Very will written. Need to read it a few more times to get more meaning out of it. Appreciate the poetry also! For some reason Substack did not notify when this was posted