Danny James

Tag: me

406: Breathe this air

Now and then, you will look up suddenly from a task and being acutely aware of a benign agitation you have paid little notice of, you’ll straighten. By some prompting of curious immediacy you’ll crawl out from the heap you’ve taken upon your shoulders and step outside of the blur of passing moments to try to place an undistracted light on what signal is attempting to reach you amid your madness. Whatever small struggle persisting that somehow has remained undiscovered all this while. You will begin reaching back and wading through your collection of thoughts and memories looking for something that seems increasingly meaningful and imperative to the life that you’ve begun to slumber through. Like a treasure you’ve buried and will come back for someday, and somehow someday becomes almost a lifetime. When the day finally arrives that you begin digging and wondering what has happened to wonderment all these years, your curiosity escalates into an increasingly desperate fumbling in the darkness groping at you know not what, as though you cannot find your gold in the dirt anymore or fathom how you were compelled to bury something so important in the first place. Then suddenly, the bud unfolds and discloses its beauty; a knot unties and the design emerges as always, that appeared at first glance but convergence of happenstance and confusion. How remarkable that you are still surpassed by anything in this world and mostly your own actions. As usual all the questions and torments stop and dissolve, all thoroughfares eventually append at Her image. Thee, without whom seems all but a thread of same days.

It’s not that you’ve forgotten because you never have and never could, how to survive. It’s that you now choose to live like it was all there was and could be, and as though you’ve spent what was worth spending and will now go on never attempting to make your life an exhaustless string of wonderful and contrasting experiences such as make living what it is.

Life goes on living anyway, so go with it then. Else what?

387

Have strength child. We are born fundamentally weak, and people are going to need you.

Tell them everything is worth it.

Show them.

Danny James Danny James' blog

376: Wonderfully optimistic man

And he took his torment with a calm of one in maturity and well versed in the stirrings of the heart and human behaviour. Else what could he do, but what he could do? Which he was discovering only as he did. The heaviness of heart when it comes to mind too late, that it has all settled into place and some of the pieces are lost. And so would you never know to come across his path, that glowed subtly like a Summer afternoon, a kind of washed milky glow like a smile withheld but radiating from the heart, that all he wanted was for her words to fill his space again, and her eyes to find him so that he could melt into their orbit and stay there adrift and free, but never again, O lost. The object of his affection and duty was gone and he could not find her. His connection removed, deleted, though remains the circuitry, he fumbled the new reality. Wandered without aim the weary watchmen with no guard to keep and habits of service still strong in him, lacerating each time with the bitterness of their precision. Trudging forward, broken and decommissioned, by old emotions and automation haunted. A wreckage convulsing to the streams of recollective bites and static of memory. Some days worse. And though limped his soul, charged and recoiled in reflex of binary opposing instincts, survived in him still a restless vigour quietly pressing on, devoted as ever to the faith that each hurt is somehow a gain accumulating, and a needed provision for enduring the road few endure, toward mastery. He Went about his day, sacredly and silently, human and whole as could. Made his bed, did well his work. Adopted new routine, and perfected the humdrum attention to details that would add-up. Not to distract but to cultivate a reaquaintence with the things that were truly his, and the habit of durability. A certain authority develops recognising thus what can one control, taking all else with a contemplative distance, and so this way, he managed to salvage his days. Went home to his chamber each night, concentrating his thanksgiving into the sky, stifling who he was before and burying his grief deep into the soil of memory, than rather cast it off to winds of past. He would keep it, always, and would use it in methods of reminder and lesson, uncommon to the defeatist who go nowhere, value nothing good and complain that providence hath not with progress their luxuriousness of inaction graced. And he knew through it all, what survivors know best; that when descends hardship, or fortune rains favour: no grief is final, no joy is everlasting and are both at times satisfying and intolerable and entirely manifest of the mind. Only patience builds the strength, by difficulty and effort revealed. He was getting back day by day, who he might become and it would take as long as it takes.

282: Neil

And just like that it lifted from his soul and dispersed into nothing. Where heartache goes can no one tell, but in him was restored that tried and triumphant vitality he was so loved for. And that he was honest with his dismay, was his strength and warmth. Realising that he could have passed a lifetime in her stare but ultimately they were terribly needing to go different ways but too scared to go alone and not entirely knowing yet who alone actually was. Holding on, not each other.

268: All colours soon fade

The morning begins in a blaze of luminous peach and hot pink swirls like a pooling rain of lava to fall; the light at the edge of the world and there’s not a violence in the air. No fire in the sky or gaping hell unloosed, it’s far too still, too beautiful for it, but a blinding promise of a paradise already here perhaps. And sitting over this vivid glow of reaching holiness, is a guide of perfect puffs of white cloud, arranged in a homeward going it seems, dispersed like stepping-stones of cotton for the angels trailing to a golden trapdoor haven in the sky. It peels open slowly, like a wise and ancient eye knowing all and well as it slips from the darkness milk of a century-long slumber, upon what futile routine will its look rest. This human fumbling, short-lived evaporating everlast of unbearable wonder. Peering over the sizzling lip with a brilliance unheard, our saviour orb of blood orange is roaring to ascendency, where it will sit with explosive resplendence, the very centre and light of things all and not a sound. O relief, ye smiling humble high sun, beacon to the weary confused, nothing is dispossessed of your gentle touch across the Earth, but greeting cheerfully all tears and dew and drying the surface of lack and lament like a mother’s hand. How daily new and utterly heart bewildering. There is nothing, sets right or overcomes me quite. Another chance for a fool.

And less nowadays, in these fine moments that might have been shared, comes strolling thee into my reveries mead… then does. As though within the very nature of the occasions sudden vacancy of memory embedded is a deeper and more adamant remembrance in wait. Instants, bright and fulfilling, riotous with life urge me to enquire what shade and resignation prefers. The contrast emphasis. And we cannot just go along easily, but puncture directly to the heart or hold our own from a safe screaming distance. Telling it is when I cannot sever so quickly the cords of an attachment anymore. Good soul, who found a reason to stay in the first, and last place; none so can ever leave without a trace.
‘Anyway, don’t get too caught up in it now like always, aching over the intricacies of lapping little shore breaks on the beach, or the Coasts Winter mantle of mist and whitewash and what distant winds have hither inspired them. Like a flag in the Summer sea breeze flailing tirelessly resisting the flagpole oppression it needs. Welling tears at melodies that demonstrate your gentler parts, and returning always to the same hard stoic stare of modesty and recovered order, the state from which you will again stray and which you hold most dear.’ Practice, practice, practice. It’s a rehearsal anyway, for the big last dance at midnight and it’s been the eleventh hour for almost a lifetime now. ‘Your mind you can change, and do and will, but the sky not. It is not for you but simply is. The birds, happy enough do they sail on, and you should go with their philosophy awhile, for clear days or not know there are many days, many colours and all colours soon fade.’

254

What a change is wrought in 26 weeks. Days even. Why, this very morning had I broken anew and forfeited my humour in a moment drunk with ignorance, to recover again my strength before the sun had set.

Newcastle, 2014

Newcastle, 2014

251

Not biding. Accumulating strength.

235: All shall be well

Out lying lantern, ye concocted light that steadied once uncertain nights. I have recovered to myself by brave and conscious tensity, – acuity of unmeasured penetrative strength, which, with what small allotment thereof I have explored, settles the outline of all things into a clarity, of fine enough detail to my way now make, the pitch and depths of dark in which resides any no matter. What resolution have I discovered! That I need not now, nor, in truth ever thy penurious aid. But so much the better now I see, and thou art my eyes at night nevermore, but a lonesome, looking star fixed upon the distant black, that shine though you still, attracts a moments bitter wonderment and contributes nothing further that I cannot myself signify or do without. Farewell.

danny james blog oh man

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.

154: Always, like this

What seems to assemble with delicate coincidence, scatters with severest purpose.