"the hush of reverence is inappropriate for literature; great writing makes a great noise in the mind, the heart." 

~salman rushdie

reading and writing of writing

"... passion to proclaim the truth..."

don't try too hard, or you'll just dance around it. the search for profundity often ends in nothing. the exercise of one's God-given gifts to search, to communicate, to articulate, to feel, to reason--these combine to form the knowledge, even the wisdom, others may marvel at. these are the things that connect us to each other. passion is necessary. passion to proclaim the truth more vital still. if truth is relative, there is no end. since truth is not relative, the end is in sight, though still perhaps unclear. we write to it.

library

the first books on the shelf are never read,

though 'never' is an exaggeration.

someone whose goal it is to devour all 

might see them,

but 'devour' is an over-statement.

you want to look to the inside, to the next shelf,

and the next one.

who stops at the beginning?

i say, my friend, 

who starts?

i see you in the third row, the fourth row,

covers open, pages falling under your thirsty eyes.

but oh for a thirsty mind...

i am distracted by chatter and natural sounds that seem unnatural in this place. awkward conversation--she doesn't know that man, and all she can think of is her safety, her smile. 'please, someone, come to my small rescue...'

cart wheels

a courteous farewell, and then the laughter. 

"what a weird man..." lies under friendly laughter.

a place of income for those who can see past the shelves.

a heavier helping for those who cannot.

what does seem natural in this place?

the smell...

the smell of pages, lives, minds...

has it always been this way?

i can imagine it no other.

i suppose that is why i'm here...

the fear

i wish that element would leave,

or perhaps it resides only in me.

it is outweighed by my interest,

but it is still there.

the fear of seeing

and being

seen.

this is not my place,

but it is a place for me.

i came across a letter today. i won't tell you much more than that. but it sent me somewhere else, 

somewhere i haven't been in a long while. 

i put it away carefully, knowing i won't look at it again for who knows how long, but i will think of it often. i will think if it.

1. Vintage Letter - 1881 3. Letters from the past 

2. to send a letter  4. handwritten letter

love

love means to learn to look at yourself

the way one looks at distant things

for you are only one thing among many.

and whoever sees that way heals his heart,

without knowing it, from various ills--

a bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

then he wants to use himself and things

so that they stand in the glow of ripeness.

it doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:

who serves best doesn't always understand.

~Czeslaw Milosz

don't go away

it's raining, and though i cannot share the sound or the smell with you, i can share thoughts, memories of summers past and expectations of days and nights to come. rain is like a gentle friend, and gentle friends are good ones to have. even a heavy downpour is still graceful, still just as it should be. i have not yet been swept away. i have not been displaced by sudden waves. if i had, perhaps i would feel differently, but as it is, rain is my sole companion tonight, and a good one. it does not listen, though; only asks to be heard. as i have so many things to tell, but really nothing to say, that may be just right...

basically

i will try not to share too many mundane bits. but sometimes, that is what life is. and that is often what makes it lovely. something simple, unexciting to anyone but me. a sound, a movement, a light, different from (or maybe quite the same as) every other of its kind. i won't tell you to notice its beauty. if you didn't, you probably won't. but if i must be the one to set it before you, i will do so gladly.