DEEPLY AWAKE – CHALICE AND THE VOID

Although there is not one thing on this Earth, or above, that is not without humor, absurdity, mischief, there is a subject on which I am intimately familiar which cannot be made fun of. It is a singular state, a space of the deepest mysteries of them all, the place where cells teach each other how to dance with such ease, grace and fluidity, that although we are made of fantasies and will, we emanate a body, a suit so complex, knowing and glorious, so willing to comply with any thought or belief its mate conjures. This space, this non-space, this all-knowing place of pure creativity, pure bliss, this is the mother of The Void. And, although radiantly intangible, its daughter visits us every day. The Void.

I think that one's soul, and life, can be thought of as a chalice, an expandable chalice. Everyone's chalice is uniquely their own in size and age and brittleness and design. No chalice is better than any other, because they are made for a sacred purpose, and each chalice understands that this is a holy task, not one in which dick measuring is going to be acceptable.

Each chalice is perpetually filled. There are spillages, and at times breakages, but the flow remains steady and strong. It is only the chalice which determines how much wine they are able to hold.

The chalice expands when it encounters wine from a certain vintage, a particular county, and the interaction between wine and cup results in an etheric resonance,. There is a memory sparked, perhaps of the same earth they both came from, the quarry and the earth it nestled in for a while. There is a knowing. These are actually bombarding the chalice constantly. The magic, the mystery of it is that the chalice has a consciousness, and if it discovers this, then the recognitions occur with regularity, and the magnitude intensifies with each encounter.

Consider this, however.

DEEPLY AWAKE – TEND TO YOUR PUZZLE

It is such an old saw, and due to its truth, it is a sturdy and predictably apt descriptor of the writing process: we write that which we know.

I've been thinking about writing and the pleasure it affords me. Since my childhood. I have gone from writing poems, essays, short stories, reports, magazine articles, novels and plays to revealing blog entries, and always with the thought that if I can just commercialize my writing, I would have the perfect life. And, just to be clear, I knew, in my soul of souls that the only things holding me back were others... my parents, my job, my temperament, my lovers, my culture.... Until this afternoon.

If The World would ever just get off my back for five minutes, if The World would just cooperate with this genius of mine, then, dammit, I'd be happy. I'd be free. I'd be released from this nightmare.

Imagine my surprise, finding in the fifth decade, not only my voice but an avenue to express it day or night, with the knowledge that in real time, someone might actually read my words and benefit from them, or, better, be amused by them.