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We walk through this great corpse, rotting magnificently, and we light little candles that glint off the teeming maggots’ heads, and we say, This is daylight!

This is not daylight. Blow them all out, all those opinions. Wait till even the wicks are cold, and lie down with the maggots in the dark.

Be patient with the wriggling and the smell. Fold your hands over your breast, and wait. Till the flesh drops from the overarching ribs, and the blaze lights up the opening cavity, the afternoon sun coming through the bars. Wait, even then. Till the dripping stops. Till every wriggling thing is born, and has flown away. Till all the scraps that have sifted down onto you are dried and paper thin, and blow away.

Then you can get up, and step out between the clean white bones. That will be daylight.

[Reprinted from mole (without permission)]

I go all over to other people’s blogs. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I start at the blogroll of, say for example, butuki, and see that he admires the writings of some other fabulous blogger, and from there, I see that the blogrolls have a lot of common bloggers listed. Soon, I’m reading this great literary circle of fantastic writers, and I’m ever questioning my own ability to write, my own vocabulary, my fresh ideas, my life in general, my capabilities as anything.

I am not a writer, a poet, a wordsmith. I don’t know what I am anymore. And I’m supposed to be finishing John’s website. But more and more, I want to comment on people’s blogs, to say what? I don’t really know, and to take advantage of all this technorati pinging thing going on, and wondering how all these bloggers do what they do, how do they get the time to devote to this, and how do they make any kind of living at it?

Should I quit my waiter job so that I have the time to really dig my nails into it? What will I pull up from this blogosphere? Where does it all go? Meandering the way I do, I get so lost, I can’t see the forest for the trees. And I really love trees. I keep watching the eucalyptus out there shed their skin, and I should go out there and get more pictures of it, but here I sit at my computer(s), not getting a handle on anything, and in the eyes of the really literary ones out there, probably failing miserably.

The poem by mole, above, gave me much to think about, and the comments from others, whom also had much to think about, and my co-worker, a minister, who was dealing with death issues gave me a booklet to read: “Hope Beyond the Grave” by David Hocking, which was pulling bits from the Bible that interestingly related to mole’s poem - here, from the Book of Job (7:5-10) is something I believe relates:

My body is clothed with worms and scabs, my skin is broken and festering. My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and they come to an end without hope. Remember, O God, that my life is but a breath; my eyes will never see happiness again. The eye that now sees me will be no more. As a cloud vanishes and is gone, so he who goes down to the grave does not return. He will never come to his house again; his place will know him no more.

*

So where do I go from here? Is it down to the lake I fear? Nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah. Wreck, I’m a wreck, I’m a wreck, I’m a wreck. (I really don’t remember the correct lyrics to this song, but this is the way I heard them - and they seem to fit. I can’t even find the lyrics, and I don’t know who recorded it either.)

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 20th, 2005 at 11:02 am and is filed under Blogging, Inspiration. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.