Danny James

Tag: Emotion

385: Sally in the Winter

I was discovering the advantages and obstacles of increased perception. From posting my meditations high above instead of among the boulevards of twisted metal and scrap industry dreams of the old coughing steel-city. A town that flirts with change like single romantics who give twice as little as consume, and so edge forward in a lonely aching ever-standstill. I can mark back to the long beginning of a great confusion of my making here. As mice and gulls would, by virtue of differing experiences of the same broken suburbia and beyond, entertain dissimilar impressions thereof. I had now a wider measure of insight to inform my decision-making, as well the sobering gravity of a lost illiteracy and a rain of new extravagance could nobody entirely drink.

Save the glassy reflection of headlights on busy wet roads, August nights as I recall, until Winters twilight offered no surprise or bother to the routine of living and my uncontemplated place in life. Gone are those days could never I have fathomed I’d miss, before that intersection of youth and a convinced-of adulthood where the Earths rolling seems to be gathering momentum and increasingly necessary thus are the sunrises you do not heed. When it’s decided that you’ve seen plenty and are utterly bored, but are not of experience enough to realise that this boredom is perhaps the peace of mind you will never again know, and bears an ignorance that once lit soon will burn habitually for years many more. So get on with it then.

The restaurant is in the peak of Friday night flurry, and I am where I most enjoy anything, sunk in the thickest of it. Up to my chin in the dilating depths of joyful letting go, wading and melting seamlessly shoulder to shoulder with whom has needs I must foresee, and craft around them quietly the next ease before the realisation steals upon them they were ever discomforts mark. An environment manager; a scene setting, helmsman of an evenings spectacle of sensory impressions. Outside, the rain drifts across like snow and pretty as it is, I have succeeded not if it withdraws them instead but dial it I must, the pitch and tone of wonderment enough to complement and not entirely distract from the reality which for them I am sewing as I envision it suits any instant in the ongoing connection thereof. A fantastical experience of perfectly woven sensation and meaning. Memory making and humdrum forgetting, – a spin and whirl of hours in an instant drawn, because outside of here will come soon enough and I am keeping the gates of this realm, against which fall away for a few hours all of your otherworldly misgivings, where may you sit unscathed to entertain the simple pleasures of free conversation and marry that with fine soundings and perfect relations. The underbelly network of this warped exposure is a melee of strings, smoke and mirrors stressed, beguiling, bending, and at any moment, threatened to fall apart. To heighten the tension it is turnover time and section heads here must hold as much professional repose-fullness as ever you’ll find to gracefully precisely deceive and flatter, as well tighten the hinges that keep us all together strained which buckling, might see this ship of fools topple over with a gasp and spilling out into the night and cold water over which we are situated. And I am there among it all, hidden in plain sight as intended, keeping order and overseeing the processing of my section unseen and imperturbable, all the while unescaped of her piercing eyes fixed on my every move. The watcher watched, I was done for; fated prey of her sweetest yearnings stewing patiently beneath the noise, and I wasn’t at all to know.

373

Once in a while expose your bones to cold weather, and take with a break-away suddenness, a walk into the Winter morning to exhilarate your torpid nerves before you perpend yourself out of the experience. Let lead for once the thrill of sensation. The speed of touch and affect over bracing. Bracing means a gap of preparations, and I am calling for an instance free of the constructions and mental entanglements we’ve spun to hold on and make it through what’s yet to arrive and may never, and so make it rather difficult to just. Let. Go.
And exist. Right where you are, as you are and not between points or making ground. Connected and attuned. We’re too oft in our heads and not enough in the pulse. We read terrain and trajectory of obstacles like puddles and misremember the lawless joy of our childhoods when kicking Autumn leaves and standing in the grass with no shoes on our feet was as natural as smiling, and we’ve forgotten too; that smiling can in fact precede the feeling it represents.

I went out so this morning near as blank and perfect as when I was born, as the last of the blue-dark sky paled and revealed to me a restlessness in the horizon toward which I went unguarded and presenting the senses bare to the rush of impressions all. You forget, how an Arctic air can quicken the spirits, and silence the mind. You forget.

It helps if there is little sun, or none to spoil the honest intimacy with its bursts of cosy cheerfulness, but above all, be absorbed, and let that be all then. Depart from your schedule with zeal into an engagement with your surroundings and open entirely to the emotional resonance with which the Universe reaches you. Receive the scene and its vastness for what it is. Embrace the rain of innervation. Permit the air to bite your lungs and tighten your flesh. Your muscles to contract and shudder, and to shake your speculating loose of taking root. A keen awareness will awaken, dilate, and throb in you, coursing your halls, weaving and electrifying, threading you back into a supernal fold, to which you belong. You are an organic being. Not simply the sum of the things that you’ve done, will do or concentrate on. It is not so much what you feel that counts, but what you think about how you feel, when you do.

314

It’s a Sunday afternoon you could be, and apparently should be doing something outside and more agreeable and instead the day is carrying on without your involvement this time because it’s been too many since you’ve been able to open your book. You’ve been busy. All week in fact and probably actually for longer than that, having forgotten the choices you used to have, and the feelings that a human gets to feel whose life is enriched and balanced by the guiding implorations of his own Nature. Can’t accustom to modes of recreation. Can’t seem to adapt without having a process to immerse in, or remember what things you do that are for your own souls recovery, and you now despise having to designate a gap to read, to write, to do anything of the things you enjoy when so much of this life is partitioned, allocated and dispersed already. Being has become exhausting and static, and you, jaded, trudging forward into grooves of chore and an obligation to just take part and be quiet, have somehow invited these dull perspectives by expending so much attempting to live in their opposition. Then, too many options was always the problem in the first place so you burned all your bridges to remove some of that noise, to be able to move forward unhindered, to somewhere or anywhere and not be stopped with indecision.
The day pales, wanes of its light and opportunity, and you let it. It is but a day towards other days the same and you are so tired, that the feeling as you drift into sleep is so exhilarating, you are charged to a more intense and fatiguing wakefulness. It depletes as much as gives, to be always wringing out what juice holds life. The pressure can be immense that you lay upon yourself, to contribute than rather detract in this world. To be always climbing, and calculating a climb, never having or making arrangements of an arrival anywhere, and withal missing the sunshine on a hill and the way birds seem to hang, suspended in the path of its golden rain, under rule of some primordial wisdom. Might well it be out there for all you know, finally the era for which you have been all this time labouring, when fortunes cycle has rounded, veering unto your position, and, for better or worse, you have arrived at the confidence that presently it simply can not matter. You don’t want or need to participate in everything so much as observe, and recover in quietude a wholeness of self, left behind. Tend there, soul and honour this gift. Sometimes, the drafts, or whatever mundane task needs doing needs for now to stay undone. Ever something will be undone, for all things can’t all at once accomplished be. Quit considering all the things considerable for once and accept the chance to sit and just listen to your beating heart and the flow of air coursing your lungs, escaping and blending with the atmosphere, with the melodies and pulsing of your entire being and a throbbing Universal aliveness that will incite tears in the eyes, sourced from the deepest wells of pure and rushing emotion dammed up since youth, and every bit a significant element of the human experience.

292

A common and avoidable misery of our times is in perceiving always a need for a new start or clean slate, and having opportunity for it.

285

There was a time, when I allowed feeling to guide my actions in life. And that really is all that I can say about that time.

276

It is not the referent, nor so much the reference, but the vehicle by which you arrived at your reference.

265

I do not believe in events of pure tranquility; a state of freedom from emotional tremor and suspense. No, I do not believe our burdens bear endurance to dissolution. If there are joys, they are but survived given; withholding perishes them with would cling. Will troubles. They are to be worn, long as can be wrung of instruction. Therefore, where possible, predict them.

So, if there is good, any truth, any compassion; from yourself first receive.
Disturbances are as we perceive.

242: Somewhere vivid

What if we approached our own present emotional state, as though it were not our own, – keeping a distance and uninvolved? Like one would to discover explanations of emotion alone, a purely fact driven observer. Removed of self or notions of reference and relativity; without a re-configurative immersion. How then might we act on that advice? 

200

Ruminations undid you, not that upon which you ruminate.

155

What brings this burgeoning tumult of rapturous insight, the unknowable depths of which into it appears I have not so much fallen as leapt? Like a heretic sentry from his all-seeing, overlooking formation suddenly shot alive with option of startling contrary, and broken the spell of the deepest convictions of his identity; neither with the clearest rationale behind the impulse or its outcome concerned, perhaps thrice as bound by convinced he is not, and plummets so, individual.

Although I am already aware the dreadfully unavoidable truth of impact, if incompletely the origin of lure, – of what I ask myself most intimately regarding this strange new temptation that has never till now been attractive, I manage still to salvage some distortion to the facts as pleases but harmfully. As it is in the Nature of emotional pleasures, by instantaneity satisfied and begun so forth. And of this may I have grounding, but no immunity. Else I could temper my zeal to eloquence, and discourage the course of desire in the blood, that pools a conjuring of her reputation to my heart; might I know then a morning absent of mourning the memory of that split second of forever under the peaceable govern of sleep, near about the period, I estimate, to be the first stir of arousal, – with bursts and fragments of alert consciousness only afterward recognised to have been. All contained in the prior-hood of slumbers end, following which quickly realises that the world-stopping kiss that affects my awakening is in fact a figments wrath in dream. And each day thus begins in this deficit, perceiving a loss where does not truly occur, only ill value-judgements make it so. If It were instead, as palpable in advance, as it is plainly visible to sight, – some haze or flinched at heat given off from the coming fire, – the ruinousness and verity of my inventions mockery that am unable to affront quite so perfectly as I abide with curious abandon, I might then predict futility in hoping and the pain of its outrage with no need of the experience hitherto. Yet the source, I can apply no logic to solving that is not diluted by my biased inclination to the joyous feeling of anticipating what may be felt potentially, as persisted in so many decorative accounts thereof however much here is evidencing no prospects but of an upset. She has become a strife, this convenient apparition, by numbing the actual strife thusly that needs her. An illogical, circular, self-crafted, self-effacing system of nutritive ruin, to which yet as much logical, reasoned and sound remedy dresses equally resists.

Though I urge forgetfulness in me, or attempt to recollect that resilience of yesterday that perhaps shone in one brilliant moment of mindless tenacity, – rathering instead the composite mettle to withstand than to without, and no such stuff discovering in the face of inevitable consequence, is all too much for my strength to reason. For Reason her dear eyes bend, and apace have I gone already to bend a reconciliation for it.