Earth

And so, back. Down. To Earth. Where I belong? This, my home? This desert wilderness of beauty and voluptuousness, this abundance of colour, vegetation, insects and beasts; these cities, these people, these civilisations? This art, these quantities of stuff and rubbish; these tears, these cruelties, these abominations? This joy? These excellences, these wonders? These tastes, these smells, these flavours, these sensualities, these sweet transgressions, these experiences? This catharsis? This messiness, these quarrelsome foibles; these imperfections, these obstacles? And this weather? This air that I breathe, this need to do so; these urges, this hunger, this thirst for immersion, this drowning, these rocks on the road, these symbols, these signs? These abstractions? These metaphors, this poetry, this song and dance? That we make? About what? This love.

Everything suddenly feels disconcertingly real again, and I’m not sure I like it. I’m sure I don’t dislike it, not as such, but I find these certainties confusing. These obligations to respond. These figures of speech, these formulations. These competitions for superlatives. These hyperboles. These headlines, these star-ratings, these ceremonies, these awards. These absurdities. These traumas of rejection or attraction, of interpretation of behaviour of looks and of glances, these whispered words, these games I refuse to play. These rules. These obediences, these categories, these schedules, these expectations. These parochial wordlinesses. This world.

This world perplexes, awes and bewilders me. Here I am, stunned to find myself on it, in it, part of it, and I am momentarily paralysed. This will not last, I feel sure, though why I should feel so I don’t know. For a long time now I have felt like wading through treacle, slowly, cumbersomely, glued to the ground by a sticky morass that would not let go. There is no escape from gravity in this place, except perhaps on aerial silks and skis. The former are not for me, the latter very much so. I think me on the mountain gliding down the glorious white with the Alps in the distance and the molecules in my lungs, and I know what it is to be free. That I know; that, I can relate to. Everything else does not quite make sense. Which is strange: I’ve been learning and trying to understand, but it still is mostly as alien to me as the planets from which I’ve returned, richer in mind yet not much the wiser. At the end of the day there is always the here and now to make something of, and now that I’m here, I might as well make the most of it. Thus I tell myself, over again.

‘Most’ meaning ‘best’: meaning all I can do. What could that possibly be? If I allow my youth up to say about eighteen, nineteen — why not twenty-one: if I allow that to be my formative phase that doesn’t yet count as my adult existence, then I’m now halfway at least through what my adult existence can reasonably be expected to be: I can still look forward, but as much can I, must I, look back. That frightens the hell out of me. That I’m here on Earth, effectively halfway through – way over, if you’re counting from birth – feeling pretty much as I felt right at the beginning, and not having made any impact at all. Not having really moved from the spot. Not having done more than tried, but without ever really succeeding, to take flight. Does that mean it’s too late? Is it ever, can it ever be simply too late? But for what? For some sort of attainment, of what? Of acclaim, recognition, notoriety, ‘fame’? Or just even of love? Can love be attained?

“Be not afraid of moving slowly, be only afraid of standing still.” I want to know what the soul is. At a quantum physics level: the science, the understandable, perceptible, conceptualisable part of existence that is not material, not intelligent, not rational, not emotional; intangible, insubstantial but essential and real. A Quantum Philosophy. I want to know what that is. That part of me that I can’t see when I look in the mirror and that I can’t choose one of my names to put an identity to, that I can’t express in words – and if I write another million or ten – that I sense is forming and taking shape (without shape, of course), that is there and that others, some others, recognise in an instant (others, of course, never will): that is what interests me, makes me curious to go further, encourages me, yet to delve.

And so I take my cue, once again, and affirm: I’m here now. I might as well make the most of it. Whatever that turns out to be: it probably really doesn’t matter at all, but for my soul – if nothing else – it’s better to sense me alive than just there, more joyful than to reject, to embrace; more gracious to receive what is given with thanks; and wiser to change what I can, but leave for someone else and another time what I can’t; more courageous to take the challenge, than to say no; more human, altogether, after all, to say ‘yes’.

{Vernation}

i am

these days it appears

attractive to young men

attracted too, of course, but that’s not news

and not newsworthy: young men are

attractive

by definition

even people who aren’t generally attracted to young men can see this 

and even if they can’t see it, they are still

attracted to them

irrespective

their gender their inclination their

orientation

their emotion their wisdom their inhibition, their assessment of any given

situation:

whether they want to or not and believe that they are or that they aren’t

people

all people

are

always

attracted to

young men

(except those few who are not and they are few and are not and are therefore the

exception.)

the rule

is confirmed

what’s new is that more than before

more than ever

as far as i ever can tell

(and often i can’t)

or recall (and i could if i would)

men half my age or just slightly older or occasionally just slightly younger still too

come to me, seek me out

not i them

of the men i have met, spoken to, spent time and been with lately

most, though not all, have been those 

that are half my age or slightly older or on occasion slightly younger even

and who have come to me, sought me out

not i them

this flatters me, of course, maybe honours me, but more than that does it

fascinate me

because i don’t do anything to attract them, not 

consciously: if anything i do the opposite

i grow a beard 

i wear a jacket left me by a friend more than ten years ago, which was vintage then

my shoes are worn out and my jeans

though skinny

threadbare

i don’t go to the gym i don’t wear my lenses i don’t 

cultivate 

a young voice or vocabulary

yet 

young men

more than they ever have done before, even when

especially

when i was their age

come to me, seek me out

i don’t go after them. on a park bench at a party in a bar

even online

i mind my own business more or less

i say hello maybe, or

greet a smile with a smile

but that’s it

i don’t do anything more; maybe

that’s what it is

maybe that’s what makes me

suddenly, perplexingly

attractive 

to young men: it may be that

in the past, when i was 

their age

i was just trying too hard to be

something, someone, some other 

person than the one that they saw

because they saw through me then to me now

and now

what they see is what they get

and if they are friendly and kind and intelligent too

(apart from being attractive: being young, they’re always

obviously

attractive)

i see no reason

why they shouldn’t get

what they see if

what they see is

what they desire

is life not give and take after all and are we not in it

to share of ourselves

as we lose ourselves in each other?

 

my summer of love leaves me warm hearted light headed and simple of soul

there is 

so much 

delight

in being

human