a window into a life, a conversation with a soul, a gateway to a heart
Author: David Koblentz
Inspiration is a fickle muse. Sometimes empty, sometimes overwhelming. These words I write are my own but they seem driven by something else (perhaps?).
what is it? does it mean anything? might I be cleaopatra’s needle, a scion in the great egyptian desert, a sign from a supposed great age, reduced to a marker in a park here, surrounded by the accouterments of this age, from pharoahs to skateboards, all seen under a carved eye glyphs, and then some should I survive some more, but then what, just another rock, left to grind down into sand and dirt and dust, pushed to the shores and depths, as all things are, with time, as pangea breaks her shores defined…
and legacy, careening through the stars, that golden disc, how chuck berry will live on, a creation with less computing power than my phone, by far, and farthest now, although we equate nearly the same age, hurtling through space, except I am tethered, by fate, I suppose my particles one day, might, make that same journey past the heliosphere into interstellar space, not recognized as the same face, yes, that is correct, but some molecule, some morsel, some small part of this whole, this identity, this blink of life on the miracle blue marble, all we know, maybe some recognition, a thought, a glimpse, a reflection in the tiniest of dna, a strandthat reaches all the way back… to me… a legacy into the stars…
stages, performances, when does the charade end, with the closing of the curtains, and what may beget an encore, if there is one, or intermission even, or a pause of the sun, such as now. life has felt like an empty cocoon, a purposeless vessel, a vapor womb, these covid years, a strange new vice, a prison perhaps, shuffling about in all the same spaces with new rules put on our places, like saddles and straps on animals we want to do what is right for the rest, to get along, for the road, for now, at least, but the blanket thrown has made things bleak, as week bleeds into weeks, this feels like all one long winter to me, there was a summer in there, somewhere (I think, did I blink?), but this feels like one prolonged indoor throng, we still have the same jobs, well, some, at least I do, the same surrounding cast thereof, maybe this whole experience has just set a giant magnifying lens on things, or maybe these times are as bleak as they seem (less to see on the tour which highlights the banal du jour), grey days, even a light snow brings no sense of joy, just another day bouncing somewhere from 24 to 40 degrees, hard to tell them apart, days are weeks or months, a drag on the soul to a crawl, maybe when the spring returns I might become fulfilled again, free my bamboo trees from the greenhouse fortress I built for months like these, left out and open to the exposed air, branches shooting outstretched, to feel a wild breeze up from knees, the warming, yes, I miss, the warming of the sun, somehow the glare off ice patches or my windshield thatched in the morning is not the same (or even a toasty heated seat), not even a pale resemblance I’m afraid, now, only 5:30pm and the sky is dark, not much of a hue change really, from another grey day, just toned down, I seem to barely remember the sun, how the mind plays drama onto itself, a stage, a play, an improv group romp that relies on past memory but also sudden circumstance, so here I am, one less day, one thrown away, more of my breaths escape into the ether, never to be recovered, at least by me, a known finite number counting down somewhere, inmy dna, or karma, or dumb luck, or free will, or the script in a book I am not yet privileged to read. (sigh)days like these make it hard to believe in the light…
notes… as usual I add some other thoughts (yours are always appreciated as well so feel free), so far it is Dave 2, Covid 0…. so yeah, I have had it twice, once before the vaxxes were available, once since, I am personally vaxxed as a promise to my dad who was taken by the virus (one of the early casualties before the vaxxes came out, he fell, cracked his noggin, we took him to the hospital as a precaution and there was an outbreak there (movie style, like ET with plastic tubes and all), dead one week later), I was luckier than most (or many) I did get to say goodbye, in person (suited up like Marty McFly as Darth Vader), not everything I wanted to get out, it all happened so quickly if you know how hospice decisions can just happen in seemingly an instant, he didn’t want to be on a ventilator but his last wish was for me and my brother to be vaxxed, so I did, I would never tell anyone else what to do medically, that is up to you, good, bad or indifferent you (and I) make choices every day, sure, the outcome is eventually the same for all of us so… who am I to judge, and I don’t want to anyway, we will all face the end in our own way, I hope there is more out there, for me and you, my little blog here is hopefully a love letter to that hope… because I truly feel that way…
and this too, will end this all goes away with time, washed, to a second rise my finite resonance among the harmony and the chaos of the humanity I hold so dear my definition my love my fears, all this too, will end I pray for more more than I am due more than I am worth the same as an inch of dirt or worse, or heaven herself but somehow deep down I know.
damn this song, this version, so affects so many of us, the raw, the real, the feel. it resonates because truth resonates and we know it when we are shown it. this is the real, we have an end, it is terrifying to me, I want to be some sort of pillar, but I am just a man, just me… and I have made mistakes, and I regret them… but does that make me a bad man? or worse? or less? no…
somedays this feels like being buried alive I can sense the nails driving through the pine see? no, I can hear them though like they are piercing dead skin sinking below the trees into the calming realm of roots sinking beneath the sprouted fields of youth a faded diamond of sand above rust dragging half a fence falling down hanging heavy with weathered ivy half brown but still fair cover (for my slumber and eventual… release)
notes… so sometimes I think about the end, will I have awareness, or consciousness, or… anything ? was I only born when I was which would explain my actual naivety? or am I unaware of my past cosmic past? surely the universe has used these molecules before, just not in this particular configuration.. or yours, if you are asking… the whole entire existence of everything has come down to this, me talking to you, in this moment, or maybe whatever moment you read this, think about that, it is an amazing thing… the entire universe decided we had to be… I want to hold on to that, I want to embrace that, and I try…
“might I walk you to the moon tonight?” and whom am I talking to? myself, that inner voice, speaking right now actually but to what audience? just the inner auditorium made for one? perhaps often right, there is ecstasy in the ordinary driving home, typical highway night has been looming sooner, as she does in fall how soon we forget, and then just accept so distraction can be a slide into the dreaming world “may I describe the moon tonight?” or more simply the sky, more a scene like flying over a silent desert, after a day of scorching infernos downward, blinds eye now resting, under the gracious umbrella of night as the lamp lens intense set the landscape can sigh as majestic purples multiply and mate, with curtains of magenta forming layers, like tourist sand in bottles the colors inhabit the boundary impregnating the horizon with splendor until full surrender, inhabits my focus is trained only on that above the horizon not the wheel in my hand, the artificial lighting, the concrete cells and paved grounds the reality that surrounds, softens as I fly above into the night I imagine laying prone, only to peer upwards now the moon, but a quicksilver-sliver, a wink, not a quarter full, just a peeking-boo a november moon as cold as thewaning light there to bear witness, through the night and I feel I can hang a hammock there from star to star under that silent tide on this ride and so I might.
notes… I found this on my desktop temp folder, forgot to post it when I wrote it back in November… so strange, these things are almost like children to me and I would have sworn I posted it… but I looked back and had not (but soooo recall the creation)… one of those I wrote driving home at night, the muse sweeps in, sweeps away the banal, plants a seed, I try to be the good farmer and raise the idea as my own… that’s all I know… does it work? I suppose you are the last word on that. Do you dream of flying off into the moon when stuck in traffic? (and should I tell people to play the song before reading the post? hmmm… I am willing to take suggestions on that one, I always thought it was obvious.. which it isn’t I guess, the rule is not always a rule, savy ?) … and your time, thoughts and likes are greatly appreciated, have something you want me to check out ? say it… I’m not a mind reader…
such a wonderous event when you are a kid, juxtaposed with now, the anxiety, the high drama, thesudden invasion of the “bomb cyclones” and “polar vortices“, naming every… single.. storm, the dilemma of travel, of cars, of roads, of brine and all the whirlwind things that haunt the mind on a day where flakes are falling, forecast is gnawing, on the mind, on the airwaves, when, somewhere, in the ether of things, is lost, the miraculous reality, well, the scientific reality, but still the stark beauty, the imagination, the combination, the consequence of dna, falling flakes, not a one nearly the same, if only you were to look, to examine, look each flake in the face, to see that new creation, just birthed from a cloud imagination, a flurry, a hurry, gravity – the reaper, pulling down, until enough can cover the ground to sustain a little breath longer, a benevolent army, no, an oblivious wonder, floating down on to all things great and small, regardless of stature, age, or matter, the only matter is a fact of, an equal opportunity cover, a blanket of wonder, so pure for a time, a moment, a snapshot, a thin film to sheet to a blanket to be seen on all surround.
‘companion’ for you are, always with me, this fantasy, based on once reality, so far away now in years, still has the hold of yesterday and the warming dawn of tomorrow, but no, a phantom memory, even if I know what you would say, would you? anymore, am I the same person as we once were, together, I can not be sure, doubt is rot, but too honest to dismiss, love seems like an anchor but also a map to where… some would say where I have been, can the road past point to a future path? I don’t know, I only know the fleeting hope, what whispers in, to my ear, in dreams, waking apparitions, delusions, perhaps, if there is a difference in such things, subtle kisses of, being awake, or asleep, or alive, how can I compare to anything on the other side until such time, as, well, but for now (and seemingly always) you are my companion, the strength of that thought, that feeling, wanes and rises, yes, like a proverbial tide, sometimes mild, sometimes an overwhelming wave that pushes me under, to the darker thoughts of why, but always the gentle recede, back into that vast dichotomy, the sheer beauty of infinity, to the eye, when locked on an ocean horizon, knowing the depths conceal my centuries of wrecks in demise, and yet, also a womb, a treasure chest, a portal, perhaps salvation, the constant presence of the power of perpetual motion, back and forth, forward and back, for we are, as hearts beat, brain waves pulse with electronic sensations carried to the power lines of our extremities, and the abstract, love and revile, just as real as a stone in hand just not tangible with the same senses, we have been programmed to trust, I could clamp all those valves of input off, and still feel, feel you there, my companion, even though, I lost you so long ago, eyes closed, my arms remember, my hands recall, my heart does call, and sometimes I think you may hear me, somehow, for that was there, that bridge, that bond, that love, my companion, I will not perish as one.
this is/was a stream post, meaning I wrote it all in one gulp, one sitting, one flowing, just an idea let out of the barn, allowed to roam free until… well, until it ended of it’s own volition, or my pen, or keyboard or such… such is the way of this blog, am I totally free? maybe not, trying to get there though… to allow my expression to be a bronco, in a field, running, or not, just being…
puddles as pools as footsteps, the oddity of being on the dividing line on a map, always the corridor, wintry mix so they say, so it is, snowing one minute, raining the next, the pure white of barely an inch, devolves into ice walled pools that retain some structure, captured capsized footprints, preserved perfectly, for at least a moment, until the eventual slide into full on water, a frozen tide, lines that outline where I was just a second ago, proof of life I suppose, if however temporary, even those footprints on the moon will go away someday, I suppose, would I treasure those more, if I could ? more permanent than my little frozen steps across the temporary pond hopping in my driveway, all just a matter of the scope of time, the lens of passing, time, time has all the time in the world, and then some, mine just a fleeting trail of steps, melting into the ether, succumbing to the inevitable.
sometimes the smallest things, you should notice, like your footsteps in the rain, or the semi-rain, or the snow, proof of life, like a clutched newspaper, but better, a strike in nature, even if for a moment, the mother provides for a moment in her bosom… so take them, when you can, for time even binds her kind hands…
(this is an imagining of a writer tasked with writing about a voyage into the unknown before the world was all mapped, when ships were the only way to go continent to continent)
nautical twilight
traveling out on these very sturdy oak boards, pitched and yar on the earth herself, land long past behind us now a promise- a distance in front of us now from outwardly run the captive mist of isles and onward bound so I am tasked to write of this supposed bounty, adventure of land far past the eyes of any maps, so in trust we sail on the captains word and keen sitting under the lateen-rig yards and at night surrounding ocean crowned with countless stars in circles men unwind the day yarns and tales round spike the ears words and slurs round pass the ale for most now I’ve heard these many days monsters, mayhem and the soft serenades (of mermaids?) but we never speak of- never speak of that, as if the ocean will swallow whole the mass this quiet nervousness however is a chill past in night doubt grows in passing hours, days the wonder if wisdom was to turn back but never speak of this- never speak of this, looks lock to say if they were but literate men may theywrite the same; I’ve travelled many places on the fair continent by caravan, by foot, by beast, always something to see, feel and feast- but here, danger breeds in the sameness swells fear seethes out in that vastness casting spells, and every day placed for the next, ritualistic into effect for the coming breath, the welcome consort of a racing dolphin escort or a whale plume’s that recalls city-park fountains or so I imagine, reminisce of the standing ground of trees, of birds, all of these foreigners now fleeting memories out of grasp of hand now, after all these months, I learn of the certainty of land.
