Resolutioning is, of course, an art.
It’s like letter writing, or gift giving. Activities that can be done without thought or care, but should be done with the greatest of spirit. Anyone can text hello. Anyone can give you tube socks. But a good letter is a private message from the soul – the things that wine and fireplaces were made for. A good gift is a public symbol from the heart – the things that tears and smiles are inspired by.
How can it be any surprise, then, that a good resolution is no different? It is, perhaps, one of the hardest art forms. Simultaneously, it is a private letter written with the most pertinent of passions and a public gift given to sate the most important of wants - all addressed to the self. And, as if the creating of such a thing was not difficult enough, accepting your own offerings with humility is itself a seemingly impossible hypocrisy.
But anyone can get themselves a gym membership.
Thankfully, not all good art is serious. Good art is real. Is not a hangover a punch-line as much as it is a lesson? Is not a mis-connected kiss a splendour of entertainment? Hesitations and shocks and Freudian slips are the practical jokes of the spirit. If we cannot return the favour, giving ourselves gag gifts and meaningfully satirical missives, then we are no proper artist at all!
We must celebrate our lives with zeal, for our lives most certainly celebrate us.
So, ladies and gentlemen, join me. The task is not an impossible one. And while it is difficult, it also happens to be a most pleasurable pursuit. Grab a cigar. Have a drink. Make yourselves comfortable, because while I’ll do it for myself, I’ll not do it alone. Bring your dreams. Don’t buckle your seat-belt. Because, while it’ll be a fantastic ride, you won’t want to be tied down.
At the turn of every new year we impose upon our community a charge: to capitalize the day. To turn it into an event – a celebration. Not everyone partakes and, though it has its traditions as much as Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day, not everyone celebrates the same way. But it is a time when we call on ourselves and our peers to be creators of a most difficult kind. We call upon ourselves to be artists, and dare ourselves to use our own lives as canvas.
I am certain we are up to the task.
Etch-a-Sketch at the ready,
- Z
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Untitled
What is this familiar storm that taps on the windowsill of my mind? I look for you closely, but you are the wind. What is this chill I feel in my bones, that warms to the touch? What is this sound, that I hear between whispers? I listen with all my heart, but your song is sung in a strange silence.
I hear it now and again, in these midnight evenings, around the corner. A smell that was almost a smile in a mind that was almost a soul. How I languish in its melody. Eternity is the air between me and yesterday. Its strings hum in the vibration of ghosts dancing in hallways that were never walked. Where have you gone? Where have you been?
A missing puzzle piece lay inside a picture of you. Its stark contours perfect a reflection I would otherwise ignore. It brings out your eyes. Were it that simple to dismiss your incomplete image. To discard your absent face. I long to find a substitute to complete you. To feel fingers that were never there. To stop knowing so well the knock that never answers. But I fear that you are perfection. I fear that you are divine.
Angel feathers float as if to fly. Tears drop, never meaning to cry. You are a butterfly’s sigh. What is this world that makes up feel like down? What is it about you that is never around? I can taste you on the memories that have forgotten their tales. I know you in moments that never mattered. Why?
When did we forget? When did I protect? When did you first hesitate? When did we say it was okay to abate? Relate? Renunciate? When did a dream become a fantasy? Why did we stop letting go? What questions are these? A strange reversal of toes and fortune, in a land where walking asks only a little wondering and wandering requires wings.
What secret symphony hides behind fingertips? Torrid love affairs politely dare to wait. Passion grows on trees; fallen fruit a maiden’s fare. But here is not there. Here, against the odds of a rich man’s bet, is the breath between the apple and the fall. Nothing bated. Not quite sated. There is a forever that is not quite here. It raps and taps and can’t blow the house down.
But there’s never a but. There is if only. There is a yearning. There is a wonder and a wander, a splendour and a squander. There is a shadow of a smile as bright as sunlight. And there is a puddle that knew what it meant to cry. There is a truth that never had a home and never lost its way. It just didn’t like to stay. And when there is a moon or a star, there is a gentle feeling of what you are.
What does it mean when you come out to play? What am I to do? What am I to say? What is this tender storm that raps against my windowsill? Is that your echo sounding in the wind? What is this warmth underneath my skin? Where do I start, and where do I begin?
I hear it now and again, in these midnight evenings, around the corner. A smell that was almost a smile in a mind that was almost a soul. How I languish in its melody. Eternity is the air between me and yesterday. Its strings hum in the vibration of ghosts dancing in hallways that were never walked. Where have you gone? Where have you been?
A missing puzzle piece lay inside a picture of you. Its stark contours perfect a reflection I would otherwise ignore. It brings out your eyes. Were it that simple to dismiss your incomplete image. To discard your absent face. I long to find a substitute to complete you. To feel fingers that were never there. To stop knowing so well the knock that never answers. But I fear that you are perfection. I fear that you are divine.
Angel feathers float as if to fly. Tears drop, never meaning to cry. You are a butterfly’s sigh. What is this world that makes up feel like down? What is it about you that is never around? I can taste you on the memories that have forgotten their tales. I know you in moments that never mattered. Why?
When did we forget? When did I protect? When did you first hesitate? When did we say it was okay to abate? Relate? Renunciate? When did a dream become a fantasy? Why did we stop letting go? What questions are these? A strange reversal of toes and fortune, in a land where walking asks only a little wondering and wandering requires wings.
What secret symphony hides behind fingertips? Torrid love affairs politely dare to wait. Passion grows on trees; fallen fruit a maiden’s fare. But here is not there. Here, against the odds of a rich man’s bet, is the breath between the apple and the fall. Nothing bated. Not quite sated. There is a forever that is not quite here. It raps and taps and can’t blow the house down.
But there’s never a but. There is if only. There is a yearning. There is a wonder and a wander, a splendour and a squander. There is a shadow of a smile as bright as sunlight. And there is a puddle that knew what it meant to cry. There is a truth that never had a home and never lost its way. It just didn’t like to stay. And when there is a moon or a star, there is a gentle feeling of what you are.
What does it mean when you come out to play? What am I to do? What am I to say? What is this tender storm that raps against my windowsill? Is that your echo sounding in the wind? What is this warmth underneath my skin? Where do I start, and where do I begin?
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