I got a few comments today saying in effect I should stop being a pussy and share some of my writings so, here it is
There is a conflict in everyone that drives them and propels them forward again and again into some unknown journey through the fading terrain of mortality. I have long given up on the idea that our lives are like a novel plot, that event a leads us to event b and soon enough a chain of event dominates the inner and outer landscapes of our lives. I like to dwell on the thought that there just may be independent events not related to each other at all and it is we who draw the lines linking them in a certain order. But once of course I start down that path of thought I have to ask myself if there is a meaning, a underlying meaning to existence can we in fact perceive it. It is a rather serious questions with far reaching ramification.
Instead of trying to reach a specific conclusion, I like to play the game imagining, re-imagining and forgetting salient details from my own life. It’s an unusual game and I am sure you are asking why MrMary? Well Borges said it best when he said:
Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.
When I look back on my life, I see one event happening over and over again in a plethora of way, and that event is a single moment of self-recognition. I remember quite vividly the first time I cut my self and saw blood, my own blood coming out from my hand. As I was looking at myself bleed I saw myself whatever I was seeing wasn’t me the blood wasn’t me, the hand wasn’t me, the something watching and look was perhaps me but whatever the case may be I caught the tail end of something unreal lurking in the midst of the real. There was another moment were I was looking outside the window of a bus on route to some small village in India from Bangalore before it was the city of lights and I caught the sun rising over India it was the first time in my life vermilion wasn’t just a word but rather something tangible in its intangibility. There was my grandfather’s funeral in Montreal. It was the first taste of whiskey for me. Somehow the loss of my grandpere made people trust that given me a plastic cup and a bottle of whiskey to help myself to wasn’t a bad idea – and somehow being inebriated opened my eyes to the many parts of myself too that have died and that part of me that continues to do so every day until I actually depart.
And then like that one night, I am at the computer and these words just begin on their own to flow, I called it:
Eternal Moments in Somnolence
A Familiar Voice Endures
I’ve spent so much time alone,
I shake this page into vastness of the night air
releasing its treasure of words, into the thick clouds
fall into the fertile soil
of your dreams, while others
falling on your roof lull you into a deeper
sleep with that gentle pitter-patter you know so well.
as your eyes have long
reached the end of this page, the sound
of my familiar voice endures.
published in October issue of Tuck Magazine
I wrote it so that when you read it aloud you will get the full effect. So there is ladies and gents the first poem I got published about a year ago, from my collection. I figured every time I get one published maybe I will share it here a nice change up from the joking around here.