What a rich location. And so quiet. Quiet. That’s where deep thoughts like to pop up. Thoughts and “noticings” that ordinarily are not spoken.
I turned 70 a few months ago and it seems I’m more interested in mortality than ever. Makes sense. And let me assure you, it’s not morbid. I genuinely feel a desire to rid myself of stuff, and not leave behind a ton of videotapes and newspaper clippings about me that no one is really interested in keeping (let alone reading!)
So this venue (Substack) is so efficient as a way to “leave behind” stuff. With simple video. With words and images and sounds and facial expressions. They take up no space, really. And maybe they serve simply to let you know, to let me know, we were here. And we were not, and are not, and never will be alone. This physical carriage will disintegrate, sure. But I truly have faith that the spirit lives on. As I write these words, it strikes me that I really do believe this video, this writing will effect the cosmos. Look, something happens every second we take in any kind of stimulus. It might be information, or a joke or a song or a snippet of the news. Maybe it’s a bird in the backyard. Or a memory of being in Elements of Musical Composition class, freshman year, at George Washington University in Washington, D.C., in September 1972, hacking around with Hannah Garst, trying to make her laugh, hoping she does, hoping she laughs really hard and loud so that she gets in trouble and I get off Scott free.
Wow. Where’d that come from?!
You know, when I was in Mexico City earlier this year, sitting on a park bench reading a novel (think it was Money by Marin Amis), I had this very strong desire come over me to start writing a novel myself.
What a great way to unload my creative juices, and to explore various themes I’ve always been keenly interested in. What a great way to age. I could write about a guy thinking about whether he should live in a foreign country, be an ex-pat. He could be trying to navigate life with new spiritual information, trying to live in the world of clock-time and map-space, the world of the senses, of the physical, of the material, while at the same time realizing that it’s all just a vibration, energy, and certainly not whats it appears to be.
I told a writer friend about this and she was very supportive. She liked the idea that this character was a want-to-be writer who has discovered the impotency of words, the inability of words to express “reality,” and what he’s going to do about that.
I do have an idea about that. But I’m not talking right now. Ha! There I go again, being stingy of spirit. Back to you.
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