judgment

A Reflection on The Transient & The Ephemeral

What lies at the core of worship?

Even the most devout atheist, in some form of another worships.

There exists, a compulsion in humanity, to latch oneself, an agent of transience, to The Fantastic, The Ephemeral, The Numinous.  Whether it is to a God, or perhaps zealous adherence to secular scientific doctrine, maybe even The Artist who seeks to affix herself to eternity vis a vis her magnum opus, effectively becoming a saint of her craft.

In the simple work that we do…

In regards to the pursuits we engage in with ease, that feel as a natural extension of self expression; what springboards the individual towards mastery?  For the hobbies we love, we enjoy them not simply for the sake of the act, but rather mastery of the act itself.  I do not believe this is simply an outpouring of Western tradition, it seems worldwide people are not content to write a story, but rather write the best story they have the capacity to write.  It seems a very human thing to triumph over and above oneself.

At times I have felt when I am writing my poetry that it is not so much me that is writing but rather I am having a higher metaphysical communion with a force or agent of which I am only capturing the bare minimum due to the poor capacity of my feeble mind.  Forever relegated to snatch crumbs but never perceive the big picture.

But this isn’t true at all is it.  The human brain is as of the moment of my writing the most complicated and sophisticated structure in the known universe.  What am I really yearning for in my pursuits? As I live and draw breath and wake up with vague purpose, living through the banality of my day hazily and lazily until The Spark ignites in me during truly singular moments.   Like when looking at a beautiful woman and being moved to a state of selfless expression.  Or waiting vacantly for the maelstrom of ideation to take hold of my wanting consciousness. What moves me to strive? Above and beyond. It validates my existence in a way that is so existential I feel I could handle any great expanse of time or myriad obstacles The World would throw my way so long as I retain mere embers of The Spark.

For without my art I am lost…

A flame absent a wick on which to burn…

Even as I’m writing this something stirs within me…maybe a psychologist would have some designation for what it is I’m feeling, maybe what I’m saying is wholly insignificant, experienced by innumerable human souls before me since antiquity.  But this feeling of being tethered to something greater as I pursue the highest capacity of this instance of my work, I believe lies at the heart of worship.

It is in these singular moments of silent, nigh psychic communion, perhaps with my subconscious or the metaphysical world beyond, that I feel lies the crux of worship.  It is in these moments that I feel Death holds no sway over me and that although my flesh is bound to erode I am fundamentally impervious to destruction.

I am comforted.

I personally am not necessarily all that religious, I am also a staunch proponent for much secular science, but in moments like this I believe…In the ever twisting and stretching limbs of Space and Time, I am significant not because my work will be honored, but because I have honored my work.

We are all vehicles to the destination of immortality.

Worship faithfully.

Advertisements

False Fantasies

I know it, I know I’m wrong.  There’s no way I could ever be right.  Rationally and empirically there is no possible way she could be the right one for me.  Why? Because I don’t know anything about her.  But I know if only my voice could reach her.  Not that I’m afraid of talking to her of course, I could chat up a storm, but better yet I’m a superlative listener.  I just need my true voice to reach her, the one that speaks on first sight, that  speaks of all the miraculous things the future for her I hold.  I know I can be your everything.  I know what I can be. I know it like I know the tenderness of my mother’s kisses.  But I can’t speak of such things, I can’t say how I know I love you.  How you ignite everything inside me and how there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to you.  I know that I’m just caught up in the experience of witnessing beauty something that should be preserved but not possessed.  I know you could be just as broken as me.  And yet…when I see that woman…With the floppy hat, fur vest, skinny jeans, and black heels.  With the black lipstick, pierced nose, soft lips, rich eyes, and deep skin. When I see her…I can’t help but love her.

Quiet…You’ll lead me astray.

The Lost Faith (VI)

As soon as Abigail’s hands found themselves upon the handle of the door, the distant bell above the cathedral tolled as if to spurn the heavens into motion. Looking up the vision she saw unfolding above her nearly brought her to her knees. The previously unremarkable sky had completely transformed, golden light poured from every corner of the sky as if the entire sky had been repainted with the rays of the sun.

Gently falling from the golden sky like snow feathers bright as stars plummeted softly to the ground. Joyous laughter welled up from Abigail’s heart as a feather floated down into one of her outstretched hands. The profound and beautiful silence of the moment moved her to tears.

The giant doors to the cathedral were lighter than air to her touch and swung open eagerly before Abigail’s fingers. She stepped into the cathedral and was shocked at how small and comfy it was on the inside. Aside from a few rows of pews and an altar on the other end of the room the cathedral seemed to contain little else inside.

Abigail walked towards the altar trying to make out the strange glyphs inscribed upon the far wall. She stopped shortly and try as she might the more she studied the symbols the more bizarre they seemed. She turned her sweeping gaze across the other features of the room; there were no symbols in the room defining any particular religion.

The benches that made up the pews were crafted from simple cherry oak. She inspected the back of them hoping to find a Bible or Quran perhaps, nothing. The carpet stretching from the entryway to the altar was a simple red with white borders along the edges.

Some candles set inside of candelabra in the corner of the room on either end of the altar gave no insight. Upon the altar itself, white cloth and a jeweled golden chalice. “Communion maybe?” Abby thought to herself. She leaned over and looked into the chalice, nothing. Frustrated and slightly crestfallen at the lack of answers Abigail turned to leave.

“What have you come in search of?” The question most certainly ringed in her ears but was it coming from someone else in the room or her own mind Abigail wasn’t sure.   “I don’t know,” replied Abigail aloud. Her eyes darted around the room for the possible source of the voice.

“What have you lost?” This time Abby was clear, it wasn’t coming from her own head, the voice seemed to be coming from the room itself, with no distinct center. “Faith,” Abigail said addressing the chalice on the altar. “No,” the voice responded.

The voice almost reminded Abigail of Nana but somehow distant, softer but somehow stronger. “What do you mean no?” asked Abigail defiantly. “Not it,” the voice replied simply. “You’re wrong, that’s why I’m here,” Abigail replied desperately. Her voice was quivering, full of doubt and fear, if this wasn’t why she was here then why would she be? “I’m not close, but I’m not lost,” the voice whispered.

“I-I need your strength…” Abigail pleaded, the words almost failing her. The voice did not respond. “Please, don’t leave me, I don’t know why I always feel so lost,” Abigail had uttered the words with utter humility; she was moved to speak to the voice by a force she did not know. Her pride and knees failed her as she cried out to the voice from the cosmos.

In the silence of the cathedral, as Abigail cried on all fours, she felt a warmth flooding her crouched form. “I’m never far,” the voice said breaking through Abby’s cries, this time distinctly above her. She looked up and instantly felt at peace.

The figure stretching above her filled the room with golden light. With wings as pure as ivory and eyes glowing with sunlight Abigail struggled to comprehend, the entity’s form. The Angel’s garb was a purely embroidered dress.   She sported ornate golden jewelry all across her body. Her hair flowed as slowly through time as if woven with magic. The angel reminded Abby so much of her dear Nana, but also looked profoundly different. Maybe this was Nana when she was younger? But no her face was different, one Abigail couldn’t quite make out.

In the presence of the Angel Abigail could feel an immense power welling up from deep within her. As she looked down at herself, she could see golden light pouring from herself as well in the presence of the Angel. In the Angel’s hands, Abby noticed the chalice stretched towards her expectantly.

Understanding dawned in Abigail’s mind as she reached into her pocket and withdrew the feathers that she had fallen earlier. Lowering them into the empty chalice, the feathers turned into a glowing liquid. Abigail pressed the chalice to her lips and drank the contents full.

Instantly she could feel the effects, the liquid making her body feel as light as a feather.   Deep inside, Abby felt an old wound close. The Angel smiled and wrapped itself in its wings vanishing in a radiant glow of light. “Wait!” Abigail cried out. “Never far,” the voice echoed, this time inside her mind. The light from Abigail muted substantially in the empty cathedral, but a portion remained all the same.

Even now, Abigail could sense herself stirring, waking from the dream. She tested her lightness, and surely enough, as soon as she willed herself to, she found she could fly. Facing the empty chalice and altar, the glyphs on the wall illuminated as if lit by an eternal fire. The walls around her were beginning to fade as she began to wake, a single word churned into being like fire in the darkness, Gratia.

The Lost Faith (IV)

The kitchen had become a concert of metallic chimes and delightful laughter in a mere matter of minutes. Before Abigail knew it she was scurrying about reveling in her almost lost passion for baking along with her cousin and grandmother. Young Kevin scurried back and forth between the kitchen and the cartoons in the living room stealing snatches of the unfinished desserts during any of the adult’s lapses in attention.

As the time elapsed Abigail told her grandmother and cousin of the numerous adventures that occurred over the course of the semester much to their amusement. By the time both the dinner and dessert had finished cooking they had all exhausted their cache of missed events of the recent past and were discussing plans for the future.

“I’m actually thinking about going back to school for another degree,” said Gloria, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “Probably just go to a community college though, major in business.” “But it sounds like you’re doing quite well for yourself over at the gym, why go back to school again?” said Abigail eyeing Nana’s freshly baked black cake covetously. “Well it is but I don’t really see myself staying there much longer, I’ve always wanted to open up my own business and I have a fairly good idea of what I want to do anyway.” “So there’s no chance of you going back into law then,” Nana cut in sharply. “No I don’t think so Nana, it took me forever to get a job as a paralegal despite me already having a law degree,” said Gloria shaking her head. “If I hadn’t started working at the gym I don’t know where I’d be now.”

“How about you Abby? Still pursuing finance or whatever?” asked Gloria, now expectantly eyeing the black cake as well. There was more than a considerable amount of heft behind the seemingly innocuous question. “Yeah, I mean its what’s best right?” Abby asked staring into her plate. “It’s what’s best…” “Who are you trying to convince Abster?” said Gloria half laughing. “The last time I saw you perform at that open mic in midtown. You did some serious damage.” Abigail smiled slyly; she remembered well the performance that Gloria was alluding to. It was a spoken word piece she had been working on for the better part of four months. Her work was a love letter to womanhood, perseverance, and the contemporary African American experience.

“I mean, sure I love writing, it’s an important part of my life but that doesn’t mean I have to rely on it as a profession,” said Abigail. “And I have job security to worry about too after all. In this day and age you can’t really afford to simply do what you want, particularly in the liber arts fields. I have a good feeling about finance, it’s a safe bet.”

Abigail had spun the words smoothly from her lips almost as if from memory. There was no doubting the finality in her tone as she spoke, and yet when Gloria spoke it was past the finely tuned logic, and straight down to the heart of the matter. “Yeah Abster, that’s the safe bet. But its not who you are.”

***

By ten o’ clock Kevin was too tuckered out to keep up with the adults and resolved himself to clamber into one into of the beds in the guest room. Nana also took Kevin’s fatigue as her cue to rest and followed shortly after. Gloria and Abigail continued to talk about the various men who had drifted in and out of Gloria’s life at the gym. Eventually the conversation turned to Abby and the men, or lack thereof in her life.

“So you mean to tell me with all the dudes on your campus, there’s not a single one you want to talk to?” asked Gloria skeptically. “Not even one you think is fine?” “Yeah, I mean there are some I like but I don’t know, I don’t think they would be interested. As a matter of fact I’m not even interested, I’m not looking right now.” Abigail’s response was far too unnatural and swift; Gloria could sense the tension in the air but ploughed through regardless. “Come on now Abby, you’ve been using that excuse for as long as I remember, what about your friend Michael? You’ve never thought of it?”

Of course Abby had thought of Michael albeit briefly, and besides he never seemed to express that kind of interest so she never dwelled on it. “No, I-I haven’t,” she said her face now thoroughly flushed. Aside from Michael there was another guy she had always fancied, but he was far beyond her reach, and part of her wanted it that way.

“Well hopefully you meet somebody at that party your going to, shit I might need one of them Greeks to change my life,” said Gloria patting her hair. “Are you going to bring your sister?” Abigail hadn’t thought about it since earlier that day. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Have you even talked to her about what we’ve discussed?” Gloria asked the question almost as severely as she eyed Abby. “I haven’t found the time,” Abby squeaked. “Well whatever you do, you need to speak to her, don’t go back to school before you have that conversation.” Gloria was right, Abigail knew the words to be true and yet it did nothing to ease the difficulty of the task.

The pair continued to chat idly as the conversation eventually drifted towards their differing preferences on old school music. The channel on the television clicked from movies to cartoons, then finally an old stand up comedy special. Eventually Gloria hugged Abigail and wound her way up to her room, she had a long ride back home with a very precocious young boy tomorrow.

Abigail turned off the TV and brewed a cup of tea, steeped from valerian, her favorite. She sat in silence as the day’s events turned over in her mind. The tea seeped down deeply into Abby’s core, then spread through her legs like roots and her arms like branches. Her body compelled itself towards her bed, and before she knew it, the world was gone.

The Lost Faith (III)

It took Abigail more than a moment to quell her quietly seething rage as she stood before her exam’s classroom. Mere thoughts of having to speak with her sister caused the unease of their frequent past arguments to surface in her mind. “I have to focus, I’ll deal with her later,” thought Abigail shaking her head. She adjusted her glasses and performed a reality check, pressing the index and middle finger of her right hand against the ones on her left.

This seemingly bizarre act to an onlooker would be easily understood by any other lucid dreamer. “I’m not dreaming am I,” she asked herself already fully knowing the answer. “No, I’m not. Now lets be done with this.” With her mind clear and resolute, Abigail turned the knob of the door and embraced her final exam like an old friend.

It took Abigail no more than thirty minutes to finish her exam. After enthusiastically shaking the hand of her excitable professor Abby flew back to her dorm to pack away her things for the break. The time elapsed quickly as Abigail packed away her belongings, only the most essential of which she planned to freight home with her.   By around three o’ clock she had already finished her lunch and called a taxi.

Twenty minutes later the car pulled up to the school’s main gate and Abigail settled into the backseat after stowing her suitcase. She spent the roughly half hour cab ride to her grandmother’s house silently writing all manner of wonderful works, almost none of which would ever reach the eyes and ears of the needed. When the car pulled up to the familiar old gate, Abby couldn’t help but sigh blissfully. All manner of fond memories welled up in her chest as she stared at the slightly aging house.

The driver removed Abby’s suitcase and she thanked him curtly with a stiff nod and a crumpled note hastily removed from her wallet. As soon as Abigail wheeled her suitcase up to the front door it opened expectantly. She was greeted by a waist high precocious face smiling up at her, which then proceeded to press itself into her knees.

“Abby!” The muffled face squealed as it hugged her legs. Abigail chuckled weakly, “Hi my little munchkin how are you?” It was her cousin’s son Kevin, although to Abby he was more like her nephew seeing as her cousin was more of a sister to her than her actual one was. “Come on let’s go inside,” Abigail said as she strained to carry both the boy and the suitcase in each arm.

As she crossed the door the familiar faint smell of incense and scented candles greeted her. She looked around, the entryway as she remembered, the dining room to her right and a case full of dinnerware and piano in the alcoves of the opposite room. Ahead the staircase loomed leading up to the bedrooms, around the staircase to the left was the living room, and to the right the kitchen. The house was small but cozy, a bit dimly lit and chock full of all manner of accouterments. From the numerous pictures scattered about the walls and the candles around the house lighting various rooms Abigail felt a remarkable lightness she hadn’t experienced since moving into her dorm.

From the kitchen Abigail became distantly aware of sounds and activity.   “Mommy Auntie Abby’s here!” called out Kevin. Immediately her cousin rounded the corner into view from the kitchen, tall and fit as ever Abigail’s twenty seven year old cousin grabbed her son and proceeded to vigorously draw Abby into a deep hug. Her cousin Gloria was a fitness trainer, a major inspiration to Abby in terms of both confidence and physique; she also was the one who did her hair. “Oh my gosh! Why didn’t you say anything! Nana come down, Abby just made it home!”

From upstairs Abby could almost feel the labored heaving of her grandmother’s scurrying. Now eighty-eight years old, the doctors recommended much bed rest for the old woman, but Nana was never one to remain still for long, especially when she had a valid reason. Abigail climbed the stairs and met her grandmother half way.

As soon as she met the kindly old rich brown eyes tears of erupted from Abigail. Feelings of deep gratitude, joy, and utmost safety welled up from a place far beyond Abby new and she found herself again weeping into her grandmother’s arms as the old voice just repeated the same words “I know baby, I know.” After Abigail composed herself she raised up so her grandmother could study her. The powerful searching eyes roved her face and probed her deeply.

Even now the old woman was still formidable, graying fibers sprouting from her head, mottled brown skin, back firm and straight, and the scent of lavender pleasantly wafting from nowhere. Nana or rather Ms. Christine Willard was as mighty and eternal as ever.

“Goodness, you look ever more like your mother every time I look at you,” said Nana shaking her head slightly. “Lord, lord, lord you must be killin’ them lil boys down there ain’t you?” Abigail laughed softly “Oh come now Nana they don’t” “Now I don’t want to hear that now child,” said Nana abruptly cutting her off. “You been opening up girl, you gotta open up now child, these boys they want a strong woman now. I’ll tell you now when I was young your grandfather thought no one could keep him down, but I tamed him.” Abigail laughed and shook her head. She remembered her grandfather well; he passed when she was about fifteen years old. “Come on downstairs child, let’s fix you something,” Nana said as she clambered downstairs towards the kitchen.

The Lost Faith (II)

The campus was eerily ghostlike, not the usual frenetic sandbox of activity it usually was. Today was the last day of finals, many of the students had returned to the various parts of the country they had come from, and yet quite a few still planned to remain on campus during the break. Abigail plunged her headphones into her ear and began the trek across campus to the building that housed the business department.

Today’s playlist consisted of sensual soulful R&B from a number of popular underground contemporary artists as well as some of her favorite conscious fringe rappers. The perfect mix to keep one centered and isolated. No sooner had she made it a quarter way to her destination when the familiar unpleasant call of Khalil’s voice rang out over the music in her headphones.

“Aye! Ma! Yope!” called Khalil, running down Abby’s graceful strides. The pre-programmed grimace instantly unfurled itself from Abigail’s face. Khalil was a fellow classmate from high school.   A tall handsome light skinned young man, who had come a long way from how Abigail used to remember him in their freshman year. The scraggly frame had transformed into a slight powerful frame with strong muscles. He sported a tattoo on his arm of his deceased relative’s name on a scroll with a dove floating above it. One of those generic tattoos that people are always clamoring to get. His once completely unremarkable mohawk had become a tangle of curly hair tapered neatly on the sides. Abby wondered if Khalil secretly harbored ambitions to convert his hair into a man bun.

Khalil had most definitely become a new man, or boy perhaps based on his behavior. Serving on the college’s basketball team and joining a fraternity had transformed the once nice and slightly awkward young man into a crazed ego driven moron. “What do you want Khalil?” heaved Abigail flatly, completely unfazed by the freckles and hazel eyes that seemed to crush the souls of most other girls. “Damn, ma! Why you always trying to play me, you know we go way back I stay trying to talk to you.”

Abigail silently reflected on the fact that before college Khalil never spoke to her. Despite the overwhelming urge, Abigail managed to transcend her propensity for sarcasm and pettiness and sighed, “I’m sorry Khalil, you’re right, what can I do for you?” “Well there’s a lot of things you can do for me,” he said eyeing her greedily and wringing his hands. “Boy bye,” said Abby rolling her eyes. “Wait you know I’m just playin,’ look, when you plan on coming to one of our parties? We got one coming up next Saturday, I need you to be there.” She turned the prospect of the party over in her mind, normally she would say no, parties were not at all her type of thing but a different wind seemed to be blowing. “Alright, I’ll come, text me the flier.” “Cool, cool, aight, and bring your sister too,” he said in a silky voice far too feigned. “AND TEXT ME BACK.”

By the time he had yelled those last words Abby was already careening off. She knew the only two reasons he wanted to talk to her. The first was because he wanted to sleep with her; she knew the hungry looks he shot at her well. She could hear the greed in his voice, she could hear it seeping out all of their voices, and it made her feel profoundly unclean. The only other reason he wanted to talk to her was to gain access to her sister, a local underground R&B singer. Abigail’s sister Michelle only two years her elder, was about the only underground singer Abby didn’t listen to. But that was because of a matter of principle, a very important one.

The Home

The stage is the safest place for the lost. It’s the only place that the truest expressions of will break through the ignorance and preconceived notions. Your words your will your art becomes light. The luminescence, illuminates vulnerability, the fragility, the fleetingness of suffering finds its way from heart to mind. The work, left in wake as it winds through “mine”…The life becomes the word and the word is the world. The heart finds its home in art.