Adoration of the Earth: Introduction - Stravinsky, Currentzis, Musica Aeterna
I have been burnt out for the past month. Once the bowls are finished singing, they begin to speak. In the air they leave behind, in the openness and in the space they separate, they leave open a temporal mouth to speak from. I listen. I try to listen. I try to clear my ears but my right ear has been blocked. I took one bath and my ear became stuffed full of nonsense. I am not hearing mathematics, nor am I hearing words. I am hearing a minute tone, followed by a small scratching inside of the ear. I am waiting to hear the bowls speak again. The carpeted ground begins to eat them up. They gobble on the bowels of sound, returning only bad smells. The voice is close, and it is whispering, so I try hard to listen.
Nothing returns from this nonsense space. There is just echoing. The same sentences over sentences over. Over and over, the same sentence. The same sentence over and over. One of them will finally work. It is impossible to listen out for, however much they sound like letters arriving.
One of these little enigmas will be the puzzle piece that builds the bridge. This bridge, and its construction is highly important, but, sad to say, it will not reach the importance of its life. It is only a threshold to cross. It is a portal, a gate, never to oblivion, but a brief walk past it. The water that flows beneath is not water. It is the same sludge that drops and coagulates on the surface of another Google Docs page. These are all just fables from this burnout.
I’ve been in ashes. The past few weeks I’ve barely wrote anything. There were three things I noticed whenever I departed from writing. Firstly, more words were read than before. All Murakami, and no motivation makes Hailey a dull girl. Secondly, I was punched by a cop. There was a part of my capability, body and being that was held within me, but, it was shoved out of me. I left it on Truro streets. I can only imagine it a missing, though still healthily beating heart. All the same, Black lives, dreams and hopes still matter, so, so much. Thirdly, I moved on incredibly quickly. I left writing behind with graceless clarity. The same way you leave a letter in the post-box. But, then, I could never use post-boxes again.
These were words that I strung together with my very own tangible self. An eye for an eye, word for word. It composes a parting letter for a deranged relationship The letter became insignificant, a small effort that would eat at me if left unattended. I said something optimistic, something vague, and something heartfelt. I didn’t even bother a goodbye. I crossed the bridge to send it off.
Only then, once I had parted from my words, stamped and all, somebody passed me and the post-box. I passed him, without notice, before taking note of his composure. His skin looked to be made of cinders, the sort you would find on half-used coals in a disposable barbecue. His hair was all but weak, charred wisps. His gait spelt a wonky return from an ambitious, yet nasty night out. He leaned against the post-box. I turned, looking at him, wondering if he needed any help. Whatever he had been drinking smelt pungent and heavy, the universal stench of beer. With a beat slimly passing, the man pulled down his beige trousers, and began to urinate into the post-box. I did nothing but watch him. The rest of his body was composed of the same cinders. I don’t appreciate the image conjured here, but I encouraged him. Every tangible element was no longer thought about. It was all disregarded, as he continued to piss in the post-box.
I feel like I am just rehashing the same useless and voiceless spoutless nothingness that I offered on the first time around. As much as I fear it, it all returned to me.
I took on 'work', took on 'challenges', and took on 'me'. I have waited so long to come back to this, and I have become so tired anticipating it all. This mumbo jumbo can finally be written by me again. I love having it back. I needed it to come back. People asking me to write and somehow, now, I have ideas and I have notions of my own capabilities again.
I write too much about depression, and I know too little about burnout. Still, there was a part of my brain I had considered, long after appropriate, dead. I let go of its life, releasing it out of the limbo of denial. On reflection, I did not defend it and I did not excuse it. It was, and I tentatively hope it is, no more. That considered, I know it will return, and I know another part of my head will fall apart. I know it will break off, like a crumbly and tipsy cliff , giving up and going off, plunging deeply into nonsense nullness and surrounding fog.
Eventually, I stopped paying attention to what was happening to the letters, to every single bill and every single payment, all acutely invoiceless to one force’s reckoning. This was just the first step. I needed to walk somewhere else for a while.
The lull in quality means nothing, it is the lull in meaning that charges loss. This led to the comical death of a working brain. I could only take input, but could never translate that into the comfortable language of output. Work is meaningless, too. I don’t need my writing, I want it. I want you. I want to be wanted. I wanted to stop working, but my brain never realised that was an option I could want, too.
I’m scared I’m going to see him again. It was like he was on clockwork command. If I pass him, sober or drunk, my reaction will be critical, and his bowels, criminal. I know I’ll see him. This town is too small for tourists. I know what he will do. The man is distinctive. Locking post-boxes solves nothing, just less post. Something new will be employed. In all honesty, I’m scared. I have important letters coming through. They can be lost over the sea. All these letters are just as susceptible of being lost, even without being pissed on. These letters are only as important as whenever they are opened. I am only excited for their arrival. Whenever they arrive, they arrive. In turn, while I wait, I have to wait. And hope, in extensive prayer, they are unpissed upon.
Comments
Post a Comment