...in decision...
...less stoic, more stoke...
“Indecision and reveries are the anesthetics of constructive action.”
-Sylvia Plath-
I’m torn by the choice of what story to tell you, so instead I have decided on none. It is neat the way I prod all my memory, then prance about pretending it is remarkable because I pay it attention. All these ideas, the ones that live only in me, imprisoned by my inability to offer them the freedom they deserve.
The longer I hold my moments untold, the more they shiver and shrink. All of us are forgotten, eventually ghosts or gone. It is a choice then this pattern. To give only what feels giveable. I describe the sensation as truth.
The spirit is blamed or honored, for it provides the words. All the things I hide from here, they then are the most spiritual, fully unknown to you, barely hintable by me.
Meh, this blah blah blah, I honk that as though this is some improvement. I want to talk about indecision, but also other fractal emotions, unfindable uncomfortable undescribable inbetweens. I think the reason man fawns for conspiracy is that the world is hard, granite and concrete, material and powerful in its stillness, internally molten (or hollow if you have read the right forum).
When it hurts to touch, and the tool makes me ghoul, then I, why not. The human opportunity is to spend more time being certain and sure. Tangible, understandable, answered. See how certain I am, of course I know, because I tell you so. But what should I call what I don’t, what I won’t?
I guess I’ll call it what.
“I used to be indecisive, now I’m not so sure.”
-W. C. Fields-
There is a dream language that 12th century goat liaisons used to help shepherd over 1.3 billion billys across our early continents. I’d like to share more specifics but the only remaining knowledge of their communication is that they spoke by handshake. The feeling capability of their touch was 18 times what we can fathom in this modern era. So I ask myself, have I evolved to be unfeeling as a means to modern existence? Or was this evolution without real meaning, or even worse, fiction?
The truth is I can’t tell you. I’m uncertain these days, confident that material truths are only a part of my mystery, our mystory, we’re whystory. Isn’t that cute, the voice in my head that prefers we stay ugly. He deserves the end.
“Indecision may or may not be my problem.”
-Jimmy Buffett-
…a billion thanks to John Sherwin for his feedback…to be honest, what he wrote about my writing was even better than what I wrote, so sharing it here (also read his substack)…
“In lieu of feedback let me tell you what I got from it and hopefully there’s value in that: You’re describing how we as a species and to a lesser extent writers are drawn to the concrete things that are “whole” and presentable to others. We hide our less polished, unfinished ideas so they never see the light of day. In this way, some of the nuance of what it is to be human dies with us, like the handshakes died over time between shepherds. The whole piece is an experiment in sharing the ideas you normally wouldn’t free. The unpolished, hard to define. So it feels like a meta story/poem that lands for me.”
…i’m nothing if not honest when i say i’d be no one without any of you…enjoy these pictures of my past few months existing in decision…
Do you think you go anywhere and find amazing photos to take? Or is the environment where you live particularly photogenic?
Here's my hand reaching out to yours... glad always and again to ride the tide of your unspoken unspeakable beauty, so plain to the eye and heart.