The predicament of circumstance 5/5/15

A memory corners me by throwing a mind-fill of shadows. But the now, this now has no past or darkness. This, the all- space of now, is for richly living in the moment, without the shading that memories brings forth. There is no looking forward to any of this as memory. That look, is the perusal of past-faith residue. But there are this deep-well of feelings in memory drag behind it all. I want them, the feelings for themselves, to be free, but free, without the embellishment of symbology, free, without the cover-up of my babblings, free, without being so steadfast, as if cornered in statements standing as tall and as far as my voice can carry them. This is the predicament of circumstance, as if for everyone. It is as if this comes to exist as a still-shot photo, possibly billboard size, needing to be voiced, as if that voice will provide all the evidence and the cross current of themes. And my self-consciousness some how, will provide the light in this otherwise darkened inner room for now, this now, to feature an outpouring projection. But, untold, is the interior room of itself. It is a hall of mirrors, self-reflecting. Language spoken will attempt to harvest these proceedings but none of this will explain the private ebbs and the source of the flows, the pin-downs, the mindful compressions, the pressurized circumstance behind enunciating itself. I, as the plaintive, will always consider myself as the theme, for I am only acting out, yet further. This is all some mixture of ventilation and subterfuge. It is based on self-momentums and private conditionings that I am hardly capable of standing free, and be clearly forthright aware. If I can enroll you in my story, that would help calm me. But none of this is the essential truth as my spoken words would attempt to assemble but belie. Everything of all of this from memory is fragmented by depiction as a falsehood of context. For sure, I can show you the strands, I can infer the texture of the weave but I cannot place you in the fabric of those moments. Either you get where I am hurling from, deep inside myself, behind all of this that chatters before it lands, or more importantly, that there is an interface between us,

beyond this, my predicament of circumstance, as a given, between you and me, that we share an energetic truth to start with. And otherwise, if not, you’re audience, I am a voice on stage, and all these memories as exchanged are only trap doors, flush in expression but sprung into free-fall, in this, their verbal passing . . .