Dear Writer

2 02 2019

img_9672

Dear Writer,

I am cautious in my salutation. For as of late (and as you rightly point out) you have not given much time to me through the art of writing.

This is not to say that you have given up on me–on words per se; I do hear you in the sweet breath of the spoken word. And I do find you in the symbols, the pasted ideas, some thought of by you, some thought of by others, all strung together in non-linear formation, appearing in everything that you do.

But no, I cannot touch you this way.  I am not able to look back into your eyes and challenge you to reconstruct, refine, and unravel together more mature forms of utterance. I am prepared to re-engage with you but only if you are truly serious about committing to me and this articulation of us. Black on white in any font.

Just for a time consider that to write, you must return to your cave, create some privacy for us to articulate freely and authentically. I do not fault you for almost giving up on us; I too find it stifling when there is a fly-on-the-wall looking over what we (do or do not) produce together; the relentless buzzing of judgement is enough to drive anyone mad.

Let us find a place together where we no longer hear any buzzing. Tell no one where we are going and I will find you in that place. I will find you on the road home.

Until then and forever your,

Words

P.S. If you begin to lose your way, let Wallace Stevens’s words help point you back in our direction.

On the Road Home

It was when I said,
“There is no such thing as the truth,”
That the grapes seemed fatter.
The fox ran out of his hole.

You . . . You said
“There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth.”
Then the tree, at night, began to change,

Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.

It was when I said,
“Words are not forms of a single word.
In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts.
The world must be measured by eye”;

It was when you said,
“The idols have seen lots of poverty,
Snakes and gold and lice,
But not the truth”;

It was at that time, that the silence was largest
And longest, the night was roundest,
The fragrance of the autumn warmest,
Closest and strongest.