DT had the right stuff

Another year almost past. And with it, another birthday, unbidden, a reminder of mortality, the frailty and finality of life etched deeper into a sunken face.

Sad, isn’t it?

Shall I sit back, content with my vapid achievements, looking forward with fearful respect toward “that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveler returns?”

Hell no, I’m not gonna do that!


Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Dreamers

I love dreamers. I love them.

I love those blessed/cursed individuals who periodically invade my private space. And I’ve learned I must count every minute in their presence as precious. I must carve into memory every fleeting impression, cling desperately to every nuance of personality, spirit speaking directly to spirit …

because I know it won’t last.

It can’t last. Dreamers are too fragile to live long in my world. There’s only so much they have to give before they are consumed by the very green fire that feeds them.

And I despair when only the husk remains, a true abomination. If the gift was being withheld from me, I’d hate it. I truly would. But this … thing … that no longer has a gift to sacrifice as a blessing – where only the self-mocking shell remains … well, there are no words for grieving loss, no matter how I grope for them.

Did I do this? Did I contribute to …

Understand it’s not a case of love or hate – never these. Never. It’s indifference. Indifference is fatal to the dreamer.

I realize at times like these just what a lump of sod I’ve become. I realize I’ve stifled my own ability to dream so willfully and for such a long period of time that I sometimes wonder if there’s anything still there at all.

Yet I still see them – the dreamers. Day and night they lightly dance around me. I still have enough wit left in me to at least recognize them, as they weave unimagined tapestries into my dullard’s imagination.

And maybe maybe recognition is a good thing. It is, isn’t it? Isn’t recognition a sign that there’s still something in me that could be resurrected? I have a longing for a longing.

And I’m aware of it, and it’s delicious.

Thank you, dreamers. I love you.

Station 2 Station

"...the return of the thin white duke, throwing darts in lovers' eyes."--David Bowie, S2SIt's time for a "real" post, i keep telling myself. Something that's not from the book-in-progress, like the last few, but a BLOG post, a Raymi-like stream about whatever. This was the equation i tried to blur in the early days of BRANDTRUEBOY. The so-called "Realness" of a piece was measured by its length