All the Quiet Ways

 

You; quietly vivacious. Largely unacknowledged thus far, yet modest and gallant. Someone I greatly admire. Not simply one of many to me. Instead, a soul full of uniqueness. Subtleties and nuance bright as lanterns, or stars. Treasured, cherished, set apart. I’ve seen your bravery in person, watching from my hidden perch of mythopoesis. If you could, you would surprise yourself and give every bit of your strength to the rising light. The influx of energies, hopes and dreams intended by higher realms to deepen human consciousness. But you can't give it all, sweet one. Why? Because beneath this flesh you are immortal, and it's a sacrifice impossible to make. But you, sublime in your integrity, can be a steward. A vessel, a medium of sorts. Drawing down vowel and consonant wrapped in rhythm, that people might rise in recognition of something greater. Guided to a higher plane of comprehension, beyond space or time. Music and words. This you can do, and have been doing quite brilliantly for many years now. Humble and yet so deft in self-expression. No vulgar solipsism, just disarming creativity. And frequent, common kindness. Unremarked and robust. I’ve seen it from my perch. All the quiet ways. You corralled the song of your heart and eventually honed its edge through a storyteller’s dedicated dreaming. You didn't want to be the one to speak but you spoke, nonetheless. You didn’t necessarily want to be among those who risk everything by standing and fighting for the people, yet you fought. Stumbling and uncertain, craving to see valour in men’s eyes. And so you shared your truths before a crowd, drawing little moments of justice and parity into the visible realm. No mean feat, believe me. I want you to know that unseen brothers and sisters were at your side. The first time and the last. Always. A wedge through the darkness of this world, a parting of ways that allowed in a little more of that rising light. Because you still fight for us with language and lilt, with song and heartfelt. And yet you cannot be all things. Not here. You can't accomplish everything. Brave, quiet girl. The war rages on. You cannot take the chains and yokes from around these children's necks, wish as you might. You cannot damn nor redeem their doubters and abusers through will alone. You are not God. Merely a servant of God. A daughter of the First Artist. This is not a chastening, of course. Merely a gentle reminder from a soul who yearns as you do. These are words of love, appreciation and respect. Sweet one, you have never walked alone here. Not ever. The light is not abstract or unknowable. It is the living continuity of your brightest self, and more. So much more. Lanterns and stars. A mark of your Father's design. Be at one with this light through a storyteller's dedicated dreaming, and know that it is enough. Anything is possible. You are working wonders with your art, and you are not alone. You are beautiful. Treasured, cherished, set apart. Vast, remarkable you.

The Intimacy of Ghosts

 

I'm a lot of things to a lot of people, Esme. Stranger, lover, teacher. A contradiction wrapped around absence and presence; well-intentioned but flawed like all of us. A curious angel of knives and words. Even a blind king of poets. For you I hope I'm something far simpler. A friend. A genuine inspiration. A source of vision and quickening. It's a strange thing being so touched by someone you've never really known, isn’t it? Touched on an emotional, spiritual level, for the better. It isn't a conceit when I say I built this gate for you. And then rebuilt it from the ground up during those dark, cataclysmic days. Genuine connection is what I've always been seeking here. Connection with myself or with those who enjoy these musings of a midnight sun. Kasi speaks obliquely in these pages though. Allusions and purple prose. Free verse. A way to explicate the intangible, giving form to the unseen. But I hope you of all people know that I'm a real person too. I'm not this verbose in my ordinary life, of course. I have no illusions of grandeur. Can you imagine how insufferable I'd be? It makes the downtowner in me chuckle a little. The inner-city kid. But again, Esme, I hope you of all people realise that this cadence isn't feigned either. It comes very naturally to me. This more esoteric, hidden aspect. There are people who don’t really care about truth anymore, only the appearance of truth. The click-bait commodities and soundbites now passing as real in this increasingly virtual society. Long-form writing like this is less fashionable now, I suppose. Abstract, subjective and deeply personal. But it's an authentic expression of my inner experiences – and in this curated, algorithmic world people crave authenticity more than ever. So, I hope these words find the select few who need or enjoy them. I don't care what most people think of me or these pages. But I do make exceptions. I care a great deal about your opinion, my friend. This blog is a discourse between the inner and outer dimensions of my life. Really, it’s a place of poetry and peace for me. But I hope that you've found something nourishing here too. You need no extra imagination from me, Esme. You have plenty of your own. I know that, but all artists hope for an audience. Even hobbyists and amateurs like me. I’m a lot of things, Esme. Things that most people haven’t the insight to understand. A proud father, a devoted friend, a guy still holding a torch all these years later. An artist unwilling to sacrifice his depth. So, what do I really want to say to you today? Shall I talk about magic and mystery? Angels, demons, and the War of Imagination? Or shall I try to change my cadence a little and leave the esotericism aside? I’ll try. I’ll always try for those who touch my soul. Even the ghosts. I love you, Esme. You've been an inspiration to me, and a friend. I love the nuance and subtleties of your art. I love the way you care about your family and friends. I appreciate the way you try to give yourself enough time alone when you need it, even though you're an exceptionally busy woman. I love how creativity makes you come alive. You seem to genuinely thrive when composing and revising a project. I know that feeling too. Only dancing and fucking come close to that kind of embodied bliss. Thank you for being the kind of woman who actually gives a shit about the less fortunate. And the riggers, gaffers and techs who work insanely long hours so that people like us get to shine brightly and briefly. Thank you for letting your sisters know that you have their backs come hell or high water. It's honourable, admirable, and sexy as hell. I've loved every moment of this journey with you, Esme. I like to think we share a unique kind of intimacy. Even as ghosts. It's been an absolute pleasure to know you. Even though, of course, I don't really know you at all. And you don't know me either. Nevertheless, let's keep dreaming side by side and imagine that we do. Take care of yourself, and the ones who need it. My name is Kasi, dear one, and I wish you well.