The graphology of now

Handwriting is one of those concise

almost insular mediums

because of its construction

and constraints,

yet it still persists

profoundly demonstrating

the wholeness

with which we move on with life.

We, as a compendium

of all that is

and all that has happened,

are carried forward into our living.

So therefore, to declare,

if a written page

were dimensionally the scale

of a mountainous terrain

and its surface were

so delicately malleable

to the touch

as to record in depth

the full orchestration

of the hand dance across it,

then what we would we find?

At a behemoth scale

capable of detecting

the carving nature and contours

of the characters

of the written words,

its highs and lows,

its swerves and contours,

its peaks and pressures,

its word assemblages

and relative frames,

its stall points and rushes,

its swirls and dashes,

its zigzags and accentuates,

its dead zones and its slides,

its hologram of breath

and surrender,

what would we really find?

As if these aspects were duly noted,

characterizes accordingly

and richly compared,

letters to letters,

words to words,

content to impact,

intent to movement animation,

negative space

to emotional presence,

omissions and admissions

to elephants in the room,

traumas buried

in sidebar eccentricities,

vacancies to overwhelms,

we would find, uniqueness

to each person’s writing style.

These are the forest-for-the-trees

that are unconsciously buried

but repeated over and over

in that writing across the page.

Those SOS’s so muted

yet but delicately placed.

This is an insistence,

so unforgiving

and so psyche innocent in task

that there is

this new frontier of science

even beyond metaphor.

So it seems

that we are all in chorus,

primarily just in a low voiced

almost muted hum.

We leave a traceable trail

by our writing and a landscape

unquestioned across each page

until it is a windfall by this means

and becomes an eventful experience

of itself

and thus a summation

and revelation,

taking from its symbolic status,

up from the deeps of the living it,

borne by hand from the past

into the world of intention

and meaning and gesture,

only to fall back once again,

letter upon letter,

laid down as in living.

We journey on,

as the tablet of these crossings.

Our burden appearing less

than the obviousness of our deeds

but none the less still decipherable

as any moment is always all moments

as the stroke of then

is becoming one

in the written moment

of our now . . .