I am sitting in my cabin deliberately isolating myself from partying. And for the first time since Toby’s suicide I am feeling ok with that. Being comfortable with this space within myself and not selling it short simply because I am afraid of being alone.
When I was a child, there was nothing worse than what I might imagine.
I seek other people to confirm my fleeting impressions. But none of this reaches the deepest essence of what can never be conveyed. I have to be alone to discover what I really need to say. My self-knowledge comes out of cultivated silence. I like to sit and drink some good red wine and eat some Dagoba dark chocolate and listen to Milestones or Somethin’ Else or, of course, Kind of Blue. The way Miles plays to the silence, listening deep down within himself. He isn’t playing to the crowd, or to notions of what is good, or because he’s trying to connect himself to some greater purpose. He is playing to what he hears, based on a past of study and lifestyle deliberation. Miles was one lonely son of a bitch. And it was worth every note punched out of the void and sustained without vibratto, hanging liquid and elephantine and strong in the midst of all of that wondering hard-hitting rhythm and astral projected saxophone work.
There is much critical cutting thought that is applied to the way we live our lives. What is most important is what we learn from each other and take into ourselves to grow. The excess dies or gets lopped off or burnt. The root is the feeling that we had at the moment of conception, when we broke through the shell and instinctively drove directly to the source. Without preconceived notions or fears or hesitancy. We knew what was there and did it because we had to if we wanted to survive.
This is how I hope to write. To write striving directly for the heart that lies deeply beneath anything that could be known.