Buried under boxes and excess furniture-flotsam that have not yet found their home in my home, the writing has gone on necessary hold for a bit. I can’t keep it at a distance for long—the writerly junkie in me won’t let me.
The end of each day leaves me too tired to do anything but stare at walls, too tired to move, too tired to sleep. In weary desperation, I can’t find myself in the miasma of my thoughts. Which is good, maybe….
…considering that the end of the book on temporary hold involves a merging into the nature of the Universe itself.
As a “study guide”, I am reading Brian Greene’s wonderful (and extraordinarily accessible) book about physics-based theories of alternate universes, The Hidden Reality. Reading is slow-going for someone as tired as I am. I have already planted other seeds in my head, the other books that flavor my thoughts: Castaneda, Native American spirituality, The Tao of Physics by Fritjof Capra, others. I take the understanding in small bits, the only way an exhausted mind can digest this deep-as-a-well thinking. And I detach, and let the thoughts soar.
Seeking, seeing, unknown worlds is a freeing exercise that lets the writer break free of the weary body.
Up until the end, my book belongs to the world of Here: emotion, betrayal and culturalized cruelty; the often-terminal pursuit of the physical senses that leads to something far greater. To find my way to the thing that has been tantalizingly glimpsed by never experienced, never understood until now has been a way of leaving my own often-difficult, earthbound reality behind. Imagining the extra-world is a delightful prospect. And a delightfully challenging one.
When the explorings come down to the hard truths of this particular execution, the writer is bound by nothing and by all things. To capture the Essential Everything on the printed page…well, it’s easier to catch the proverbial lightning in a bottle. To avoid turning the ending into an abrupt 2001-like break into the psycho-spiritual world…to base that dissolution in today’s theoretical ideas of what we’re made of…to make the arrival as exalted and meaningful as the journey itself has been…there is big jeopardy in the attempt, great peril in the execution.
There have been breathtaking moments, though…moments like the ones experienced under an intensely starry sky, humbled and awed by one’s insignificance, at one with the Stuff of It All. A fitting pursuit for an exhausted mind.
The writing of it will come when it asks to come. I will sit with it until I can’t keep myself at a remove from it any longer. Then I will shine. Or hope to. Like those stars I’ve been visiting.