Ghost in the machine. An apparent deus ex machina.*
Unconscious maybe, but never unmindful. Writing is not just about me, it is about everything around me and it is this paradox that gives it its power. The highly individual, often solitary voice, describing a whole world, filtered by respectful ears.**
Which reminds me that maintaining quality in music is a little different than writing. Because I am so immersed in writing, I like to keep music loose. I intentionally do not play the flute between sessions, I want it to be fresh and completely enjoyable. Is good music, shared with friends, not the ultimate ultimate?
fabric quandary of the day - If trade, barter, and sales will not go away, how can they evolve to meet the requirements of Gross National Happiness? I intend to explore this, in different ways, in Habagat, Cowachunga, and EVEN. If I don't have the connections, temperament, or life resources to create it as an entrepreneurial entity, I do have the imagination to explore its possibilities.
Arisugawa Park is pre-fabric, which is not to say it is not aware. Here, a poem written to get me in the mood for Hayao's dark night of the soul:
Slinking up backstair alleyways,
all the locks shut tight, only the pulsing
of the discotheque built on a graveyard,
the whispers of WWII hangings, unfinished
business and more.
The obscure light that filters into my mind
as I space steps to reflect some kind
of synchronicity with foe,
I notice too late what it is contained
in layers, dark on darker,
sightless, yet not unwhole.
**And eyeballs. My prospective title for a tome on Internet-era etiquette: The Respectful Eyeball.