November 22nd, 2007

new year

Synchronicity to the rescue

In the interest of putting my email through the spam laundry, I've been accessing it through the online site that routes me past a horoscope. I'm okay with random advice, and today (or maybe by now that was yesterday) was good: Today features an ending -- which is by no means necessarily a bad thing! You may find that you don't even realize it's over until quite a while has passed, so there's no special need to stay vigilant. And I am pretty much ready for several kinds of endings, so I'll take it. Whenever I get around to sorting out exactly what it was that ended. Stand down. Ay Cap'n.

Then I followed another link through the sparkly forest and found a bit of Jung in someone else's reading. That Jung. Always popping up for me at the right moment with the right reading material, only now I don't have to actually drop into the bookstore that smells like incense, but have it all right here. If you will contemplate your lack of fantasy, of inspiration and inner aliveness, which you feel as sheer stagnation and a barren wilderness, and impregnate it with the interest born of alarm at your inner death, then something can take shape in you, for your inner emptiness conceals just as great a fullness if only you will allow it to penetrate into you.

It was called The Untapped Source of Power That Lies Within, on a recording by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in his funny little voice.

Cause that was just like today. I was feeling all useless and same-old and how-long-o-lord, but eventually I got myself properly fed, and errands done, and walked. And before dinner I was finishing reading a short book of poetry criticism, and making notes and like that, because it was all BS about Robert Frost and the wilderness of cutover land, which as we know by our tours on Nature Conservancy lands are something else entirely than wilderness, or barrenness either, but full of weeds and successions of growth and old overgrown road cuts and boulders falling when no one is around to notice.

Then starting another, and writing some first exercises out of Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled, more or less free associations in iambic pentameters, with faerie feast intrusions because of my recent readings, and somewhere in there I began to think, writing twenty poems so far this month, even mostly very bad ones, or very short ones, is not nothing.

And then I read "contemplate your lack of fantasy, of inspiration and inner aliveness" which practically pointed at how I am all full of fantasy, and inner aliveness. I walk around in the rain and sleet, checking the creek levels each day, feeling how full that emptiness is. Yeah, enough with the hackneyed byronesque contemplations of the dry leaves already. There's treasure everywhere. I take my faerie change for the birchbark in maples by the hundred.