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we had spoken of breath, its role as salve and guidance, its ability to observe and to know urgency, to transmit the metaphysical, only by changing the rhythm of its one dance : we had offerred a word of advice to three lost souls —separately, maybe they knew each other and were intertwined in their unraveling— about finding the waves under moonlight, and then we talked in all directions about breath till the moon washed out in the frothy yellow morning, and I remember we said that stretch of sand, and the rippling hints of oceanic depth, glistening with the determined light of that moon that had come for us, would remain as it was, perfect and unassailable inside us and that only those who knew about our shared immortality, our grandiose heartwelling treasure of affections, could know about that breathing moon...
I remember it now, or it remembers me; I am made of that story, that metaphor, that matchless timing of souls, I am composed of that superlative getting-into, that seeping and evolving, that surpassing fixture, by the almost lamentably cumbersome sensation of being lost and adrift in beauty; that's how I recall it, why I'm still searching, still fighting, still reading the signs, marking progress in the hopes of getting back to that, back to the place where we were one shape, one self, two kinds of agony and just marveling and pouring promises into the world...
© 2007 Joseph Robertson
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WRITING & NAMING: the medicine of acquiring knowledge
Joseph Robertson
Language is that point of contact in the abstract, that plane where the intellectual life within us is enabled to assert itself as part of the overall experience of living. Language is that plane where the individual self is allowed repeated attempts at manifestation. What takes place in the process of writing, in the spilling of ink or the posting of digital characters, the slip toward defining a landscape, however brief, is the sanctification of an individual, and by extension of the human condition as such...
Not every person is a writer, by trade, nor should they be, but there is something about the act of writing that serves the writing individual as if it were a medicine for selfhood, a healing venture into clean waters. Especially so when its intent is to be expressive of secret regions of the mind or to lay out new experimental vessels for such expression. [Keep reading...]
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