Ethereal Ray
Hello Beautiful,
I’m writing to you today. I wasn’t planning to, it wasn’t part of my day’s deal - but what the hell. It’s the only thing that feels right.
There are some things I really don’t give a fuck about:
Money - And yet I need it. I want it. I suppose that means I do care about “money.”
Fame - How senseless this is, to care about “fame.” It isn’t even real and yet I witness its charm, everyday I am made aware of people - others - with a name and platform to share. They speak out, cry out, lament whatever their hearts do dare - and it amazes me, the power of their influence. I wish it could all be positive.
I’m eating an orange and thinking. I’m tired of something. And yet I am not sure what exactly it is I’m tired of; of what I am wanting to overcome.
“Life is very long.”
Playwright Tracy Letts said that, or rather his character Beverly did in Lett’s play August: Osage County. Apparently poet T.S. Eliot said it first, and in the play Lett’s character Beverly makes note of this; the character makes note of this string of words, “life is very long,” needing to be attributed to Eliot first, as he “bothered to write it down.” Eliot was not the first person to say it, and he was not the first person to think it - but the character bestows upon Eliot credit - for in the realm of men and women, we do things this way. We assign value, we make designations - we divide, split, and reorder all reality to fit ideas - a matter of perspective we call it; our inferences based upon contrived assumptions; underneath those assumptions - nothing but a hollow belief, a way of “choosing to think.”
Belief (noun): An acceptance that a statement is true or that something exists.
Acceptance (noun): 1) The action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered; 2) The action or process of being received as adequate or suitable, typically to be admitted into a group.
Group (noun): A number of people or things that are located close together or are considered or classed together.
Hmm.. Interesting, isn’t it? Beliefs allow us to belong to groups, groups we devise and subjectively legitimize, but our beliefs - a belief - is not Truth.
Truth (noun): 1) The quality or state of being true 2) That which is true or in accordance with fact or reality.
Reality (noun): The world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them. To be very clearly noted as distinct from that of Belief (see above definition…ugh.)
“Here we go round the prickly pear, prickly pear prickly pear, here we go round the prickly pear.”
Another phrase spoken by the character Beverly in Lett’s play, also credited to Eliot having uttered it first, siphoned once more as the character bemoans from Eliot’s poem The Hollow Men.
Do you think about suicide? I do. I do not wish to end my life, but I do understand it. I understand it deeply. I understand someone feeling so desperately tired of an awful feeling. Hollow (adjective): Having a hole or empty space inside. It shouldn’t scare us, I hope it doesn’t scare you - this word whispered within the ebb and flow of human transactions; our daily-global-commerce-of-mortal-existance; our exchange of ideas, touch and humming vibrations. Suicide is a means to end, for those who know no other way. An aching can be too great. Aching can devastate; render desolate, birth ghosts. Aching made stagnate is our collective nemesis. Aching is meant to evaporate, infuse it’s host with greater awareness and dissipate. Aching is meant to be healed, cleansed. Friend, it up to us, we who are meant to deliver them. We who are meant to set free them all. We are meant to cure ourselves.
We cannot own ideas, nor words, nor phrases, thoughts, nor songs, poetry, the brushstroke of a painter’s quivering hand as it spills her sorrows, the ascension of a dancer’s fluid wrist as it slings remorse, his dreams shattering. These things - these feelings - we share. “Life is very long…” I feel it today, Thomas Stearns Eliot felt is almost a hundred years ago, and somewhere between then and now playwright Tracy Letts pulled it from the cosmos of our collective consciousness and plopped into the mouth of fictitious character who would feel it too; a mirror for humanity, one aching heart-throb of connectivity.
Have you felt it? Do you know it? Do you know waiting for the uncomfortable thing to stop? So that a pleasurable other thing may swoop in and begin again? And why does there have to be such fluctuation? Why, as they say, does life have such ups and downs? It’s murky, this business of living.
I have a baby kicking in my belly, I feel him now, I’m seven months pregnant - and still I wonder, what is this all about? What is the point? What am I trying to achieve? What do I want, here in this place of possibility?
Money?
Fame?
Power? Security? Knowledge? Abundance? Pleasure? Pain?
To smell the earthy sweetness of autumn leaves? To taste the zippy zing of a lemon squeezed? To traverse all landscapes of this spinning planet and dub them my own?
I’m tired. The answers aren’t coming quickly enough. I’m wanting to cheat, skip ahead and peek at the ending; see it all burning brightly. But this isn’t how it works. Because to do so - to end my life - would mean to leave you behind, to leave you behind before it’s my time. Before I’ve accomplished what I set out to do, what I came here to do, for you. You. Do you know who you are? You are the only solution to my every question, the pinnacle of all distillation. You, friend, are my purpose.
There are 7.677 billon of us waltzing round the earth, and growing - that number’s ascending, including this little human here on his way, twisting and wiggling; my stomach’s cavity soon to outgrow his ambition to explore; know, feel, see, touch and take in more. Head, torso, arms, legs, nose and feet; we are exploring machines - and it’s nearly impossible, don’t you think? - to take in all those fears, all those dreams, throngs of laughter and weeping, that infinite multitude of shape-shifting form, of consciousnesses made broader through each and every infinitesimal human act, of all-knowing inner-cores; red-hot glowing hearts refusing fiercely any falsehood, coursing in rhythm - a calm consistency; hearts beat contentedly - only for that which is right; pure. Humans - you are bewitching - fantastical wizards casting spells. May we remember our creations, treat them well; all the universe and its ticking parts - a playroom made from scratch; our wondrous invention - a miracle hatched from alchemy; spun from desire, repulsion, and the culmination of every whim; all living expression - materialized, solidified in time and space, given voice; the opportunity to emanate. We call it earth and her inhabitants, we call them elements, her every particle, we call it matter, physics and forces - this; our planet - a reality constructed collectively; all bits in motion simultaneously tripped, one reverberation, one ripple of mushrooming intention.
When I cross over to the other side, I want it to be with a suitcase full of permissible currency, something I can actually take with me after my flesh evaporates, decomposes and rots away; only my soul left intaking, pulsing light; a flourishing, ethereal ray. I will not be permitted to carry with me riches, nor glamorous standing among men, among women, nor power of persuasion made vast my influence here in a place of transient dust - only the memory of my hand in yours; it’s you I’ll carry with me - whoever you are, whatever you dream, whatever you fear. I will forever keep trying. I will not let you go.
