Jason Cole Magnon
1 January 2016
“New Year’s Unresolve”
This year,
What will be the difference which makes the difference,
The change which rearranges all the thoughts you’ve had about you?
...
When it is quiet, and you are alone,
Which does your mind prefer: to
Search for “truths” that have been found? Or, to question... and
Supply itself, to give you truths of your own?
(By the fruit, the tree is known.)
...
Do you build labyrinths, hoping to be lost?
In exile, wandering the halls of a maze within?
my eyes and voice soften, and I'm drawn
deeper, still, inside.
...
...
Have you thought so long of disparities, that now you no longer see in kind?
Have you fought so long, so fervently, that even your freedom is now a bind?
Instead of New Year’s Resolutions––or: “pre-planned disillusions,"
I propose a pause to reflect, to gift ourselves with a break before more hurdling projections into the future, As questionable as our collective past is shameful: nightmare from which you can't awake.
Inaction, you know, plays a vital role in all actions' proceedings.
It is the balanced couplet of dichotomy: All action/inaction, all life/death, and
This love and fear.
Supply itself, to give you truths of your own?
(By the fruit, the tree is known.)
...
Do you build labyrinths, hoping to be lost?
In exile, wandering the halls of a maze within?
I wonder: am I worth finding?
wandering, sojourning vacant rooms,my eyes and voice soften, and I'm drawn
deeper, still, inside.
...
Remember you asked for this:
Hour of Unmasking.
You beckoned the antithetical, and
Pleaded to the surreal.
Now, be still... and cease striving. Pleaded to the surreal.
...
Have you thought so long of disparities, that now you no longer see in kind?
Have you fought so long, so fervently, that even your freedom is now a bind?
I envy those who find their place; they get to make for themselves a new home. However, in so doing, they will never get to make their flight but flap for someone else’s.
I propose a pause to reflect, to gift ourselves with a break before more hurdling projections into the future, As questionable as our collective past is shameful: nightmare from which you can't awake.
Inaction, you know, plays a vital role in all actions' proceedings.
It is the balanced couplet of dichotomy: All action/inaction, all life/death, and
This love and fear.
I am reflecting on self, sure, but to greater things my mind has turned, too...
the shallow surface of things, hidden in the open yet kept in secret, shrouded by a thin veil... a coating to conceal the quintessence of things.
...
I am looking but deep, inside a dark and
Muddied well, the mausoleum of memories where
I construe and (mis-)take myself, again, every day.
Always, in every way, I misconstrue... (again).
...
The year left us so early, did it not? I fear we were but barely acquainted.
Is time somehow faster since the years ran out, running... screaming? Or,
Am I? I am! Willful, stubbornly slowing down.
Nietzsche’s camel drops its load.
Having carried the weight of others, the camel learns he can carry his own. He speaks to his soul:
...
This Vast Unfolding is endless and yet, every year,
A new calendar is marked, the weeks and months,
With little deviation from how it previously was.
Meanwhile, and everywhere, all is in flux, all
Constantly being made anew and becoming old too,
again... and...
All is both dead and alive. All is freely trapped in the cycle.
again... and... again... and...
The sublime is revealed, and re-revealed, in the miraculous mundane.
I am looking but deep, inside a dark and
Muddied well, the mausoleum of memories where
I construe and (mis-)take myself, again, every day.
Always, in every way, I misconstrue... (again).
I am the only visitor allowed behind these walls, a
Prisoner of purgatory, a soul healing a lifetime of falls.
...
The year left us so early, did it not? I fear we were but barely acquainted.
Is time somehow faster since the years ran out, running... screaming? Or,
Am I? I am! Willful, stubbornly slowing down.
Nietzsche’s camel drops its load.
Having carried the weight of others, the camel learns he can carry his own. He speaks to his soul:
‘Awake, stir! Humbly have I played camel, and carried the load of the worlds that surround me.
Now, what I was, I will no longer be, and so with this worn out camel
Part of me must die too.
And so am I
become anew.’
(Beauty is a bird, breaking
free from its yolk and egg.)
This Vast Unfolding is endless and yet, every year,
A new calendar is marked, the weeks and months,
With little deviation from how it previously was.
Meanwhile, and everywhere, all is in flux, all
Constantly being made anew and becoming old too,
again... and...
All is both dead and alive. All is freely trapped in the cycle.
again... and... again... and...
The sublime is revealed, and re-revealed, in the miraculous mundane.
A new dance or disguise will not do. The secret is out; the light: broken through.
The people will see it. Someday. What is said to be spread upon this earth.
Eternal, formless, it is the unnamed beyond the mind’s reach, and yet
Its visions still appear to some, with immense and immediate love and intimacy.
The people will see and know: we have worked so long,
Only to wander so terribly far from home.
...
No weathervane will remain to point, or redirect...
Nor even to predict who will blow, and disappear?
Reclaimed with gusto in the Second Coming's rapturous sucking of
The sweet and tender as they travel back (to God knows where).
We are swept in sand: swelling, spinning, reeling in
Whirlwinds that funnel throughout the Sky,
Where waits Her partner, Great Wind, in
Whose palm is cradled all creation, cared for
In all the chaos and complexity.
And,
Dancing, clouds of sand devote themselves like Dervishes,
Whirling, tasked with the chore of keeping the world in order,
Stay in unrelenting rapport with the gestation of Time,
Embrace what is. All that is yours, and all that is mine.
...
The people will see it. Someday. What is said to be spread upon this earth.
Eternal, formless, it is the unnamed beyond the mind’s reach, and yet
Its visions still appear to some, with immense and immediate love and intimacy.
The people will see and know: we have worked so long,
Only to wander so terribly far from home.
...
No weathervane will remain to point, or redirect...
Nor even to predict who will blow, and disappear?
Reclaimed with gusto in the Second Coming's rapturous sucking of
The sweet and tender as they travel back (to God knows where).
We are swept in sand: swelling, spinning, reeling in
Whirlwinds that funnel throughout the Sky,
Where waits Her partner, Great Wind, in
Whose palm is cradled all creation, cared for
In all the chaos and complexity.
And,
Dancing, clouds of sand devote themselves like Dervishes,
Whirling, tasked with the chore of keeping the world in order,
Stay in unrelenting rapport with the gestation of Time,
Embrace what is. All that is yours, and all that is mine.
...
And, yes... a Happy New Year, too.
But, still I feel that last year isn’t quite finished, and
This one therefore must not yet begin.
This one therefore must not yet begin.
And yet, is any year ever really complete, or
Is every year just another thing to be completed?
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