Book Introduction
I have often said of life (this one): that I live in two extremes.
It is easier than to explain the truth of it: merely existing, dangling off the edge of these extremes—like Roethke’s cliff—is not dichotomous. There are many extremes: the edges of which I teeter, almost playing with ether and taunting the limitations of the idea that in life there is only an up, stationary, or down. That is simply not true. There are boundless edges of existence. Being privy to this knowledge in any fashion may make it all the more dangerous, or almost too freeing. Therefore, the claim of living in two extremes is most often presented because three-dimensionally, that is conceptual, rooted, and understood—words that do not describe the reality of it all, but then what is reality when we throw the aforementioned restraints off the cliff? Or if we stay comfortably within the bounds, safety, of such words? Though for me, dangling between this reality and the multitude of nexts: these are the distinct extremes I speak of. At least until the eye begins to see.
For now, and as always, the edge is all I have.
This is how I treat my work as well, (the writing). Many in the craft would tell you one of two things: writing is either the entrance into or the exit of humanity. They would be correct, in both respects. On the one hand, entrance; observation lends the writer an understanding (or understanding lends observation, but that is an entirely different conversation) of the world they are trying to behold. Many find this to be a coveted skill; to be universalizing. Thus, the writer is admired or respected, dubbed wise, etcetera; and find themselves held highly in the world that they create and, ironically, the world it was tailored for or inspired by. Conversely, there is the exit. We have the ostracized writer, who so adeptly and authentically observes and documents the truths of human nature that they are not allowed to be a part of it (by way of collective exclusion), or by not allowing themselves entrance (either out of circumstance, ego, or principal). A swift, painful exit either way.
While I agree with each position, the natures of writing and the writer are far more extreme—much like the cliff; and also like what would lead one to dangle off the cliff in exploration, or in search of a final sound of silence.
I am not sure where that would fall in terms of this reality, so I will attempt to explain by way of two distinct analogies (please note the unintended irony of using two analogies in a quest to disturb dichotomy).
Sea-glass
The record
I will then attempt to explain why this may (or may not) be of relevance or interest.
I
There is a time deep within the early hours of the morning in which the world is soft, quiet, liquid; its noises, look, presence in time and space is just a bit more beautiful. Here is when I think fondly of the sea. As the tide pulls to and fro, there is froth on the sand in the liminal space between what is solid and what is not. What is vast. The sunrise is nearing and we all have been here before—as strangers walking gently in a place where humanity’s footprints do not appear anywhere but behind, and then soon gone with the tide. Here are remnants of many worlds: the skies, the earth, time, beings, sea-glass. One of these remnants you pick up: that which has been spat out by time, tumult. Cold, planetary, but also supremely earthed, an entire world separate from the one in which it began. There, in your grasp, it has become something else—something that belongs to each of these worlds, spaces—more beautiful than when it started, but too, all the more lost. And when appreciated by a stranger of the sand, the sea-glass is valued (even though, arguably, it is the remnants of what humanity has trashed or forgotten).
Scraps of human nature turned pristine by Mother Nature, now have significance, meaning, to a stranger. And when gazed upon to view its splendor, the eye can only begin to see. There is no real clarity there—just raw, unrefined beauty meant to be returned to the depths, to the edge. This is writing to me. It is not swift entrance or staunch isolating exclusion. It is lost beauty returned to humanity with no real clarity or value to offer beyond what is intrinsic, what feels safe and precious to hold—even for a brief time—for those souls who, so very lonely, stop to listen or imagine what it is like not to be lost to the sea, or their own little pieces.
II
Next, I see writing much like a record (not the denotation of the word); or perhaps rings of a tree (if you would like to maintain the very transcendental imagery we have going). But for this analogy, I will continue in describing the vinyl record, (feel free to imagine a tree in its place as we proceed, if you please) as, notably, it has a very tiny, yet significant, hole in its center or starting point—what we should regard it as.
Before the very deep, quiet hours of the morning, there are the very deep loud hours of the morning. Reserved for the same-type souls from above who, in complete loudness, manage to find equally complete stillness. In sound, frequency; among crowds; through circles of time, movement; from energy pulsing through each surrounding being. I suppose, much like trees, the question would become: does the sound exist because we feel, hear, or assign value to it? Or does it exist outside of our frequency—on its own as beautiful, generously created art—essential in its own right? A small genius. (Much like the sea-glass, by way of nature’s design). But we are, again, not obligated to these restraints, and we should not have to be.
The answer, perhaps, could be found within a simple examination of the record. Each track: assigned a time, a space, a sentiment; a little genius buried, burned—unable to be experienced by humanity without being touched, moved, by humanity itself. The little hole in the center, like an eye of the storm, is the source of calm and stillness as much as it is responsible for opening entire worlds. Sound, touch, time, space, past, present, beyond. The center of the record, in the same respect: as dualistic and divided under the concepts of reality, can be deemed as an entrance or an exit from such worlds. But again, for me, it is more extreme than simply accepting a sound is a song or a song is a sound. It is the little hole in the vinyl, in a soul, at the core; responsible for transcending such concepts, challenging the lost to find sanctity and shelter in emptiness, vastness—what is stillness in loudness; loudness in silence; a voice in the wordless; a touch in the intangible; time in the timeless; a stranger in the forest—in the harrowing loneliness that a hole in your center looks for in the dark, as you move effortlessly to the creation of another. In respect, through appreciation, and finally in a place to listen, feel, what had always been yours too—now channeled or offered by another, already circling the path.
This is how I see writing. It is a gift: given, meant to be listened to, felt, beloved, on a frequency or a level in which only some can hear and some can create. Both parties endlessly circle the edge of a small hole, waiting to be filled in the spaces, worlds (however large or small) created within.
The starting point, and the return.
Finally, here is why this may vaguely matter (or may not). If you have followed me this long down the rabbit hole, I thank you—I slightly question you—and I implore you to continue. You may have noticed that my views on the nature and art of writing, and the analogies I have set up to describe them, are flawed or biased (both), with many holes and rough edges. (Puns are/are not welcome).
However, in such a position, whether it be sharp as glass or too raw of a cut, I have noticed that humanity’s energy is different. People, on the aggregate, no longer look at things through sea-glass; they refuse to even look at life through anything other than one, obvious, lens. People no longer listen, but expect to be listened to. They are not hearing high frequencies. Yet somehow folks are divided on either edge and still, the eye does not see, the ear does not hear an echo in the echoing woods. Man does not go far to see who he is, but he still runs to the edge of only two sides of an endlessly dark divide.
It is here where I do not understand humanity. I will not admit to, nor pretend to, but I am fascinated by how dark human nature has become from existing so linearly, three-dimensionally.
Yet, little birds fly over the sea, little lights illuminate the dark night of a circling track, wherein a path is created by a tree, and I am evermore fascinated, and in awe, by these beings.
Featuring two distinctly connected collections, “Burning at Both Ends” and “How Well You Swim Through the Fire: For the Lost Kid Within,” Sound of Sirens developed out of a personal attempt to document the juxtapositions of such a separated world. To try to understand why humanity insists on running to either side of an endless line, rather than diving freely into the unknown.
As someone who has spent a lot of time dangling between other worlds/folds within time and space, I think it would be nice to return to this one, and hopefully offer a bit of clarity in the darkness, or beauty returned; or stop someone in their tracks, or move them beyond words. This is my written return.
Though quite different, both collections keep these observations in mind; each with a contemporary lens, sometimes with a humorous spin, (many puns to behold), with questions that have plagued this human as I danced on the edges of multicolored oceans, and universes of thought, feeling around in the dark for something permanent.
As we either burn at both ends from a small spark, or swim through flames for innocence lost, the sound of sirens can always find us with the frequency we need: to fill the hole in our centers, find beauty in what has been forgotten, and to be in the light, finally free.
If audiences will allow such time and space, I humbly return Sound of Sirens.
Comments