ON WAITING GAMES, ON TIME, ON DIGGING
Let’s begin with a word.
Like the word, “inscrutable”.
A word I pair frequently with every thing these days.
A reminder of the dense architecture the human mind is capable of building under duress. A pretty mask, a puzzle box, a shadow that hides the tender secrets. It seems that we have become jaded, too used to ready information, stumble stumble, stumble this, stumble that, and have no patience for things not easily obtained.
We find we have no time to watch someone’s heart and mind slowly unfold for us, no taste for savoring small revelations. What we do not immediately know seems foreign and intimidating; it causes fears and doubts to surface; it is disgusting.
Okay. No more words. No more apologies for my silence and stupidity and my being inarticulate either.
I am reading Seamus Heaney tonight. Suddenly I admire him so.
Heaney once wrote:
“– on garish mornings thrashed out of vigilant nights, I learned how to dig for words. After I write grit and grub remain under my nails. This frugal seclusion is perfect as my face peers out of the rainy interiors of thinking. I have come to love the grain of thick paper, the serifs and strokes etched and scabbed onto soft wood-skins during the blue hours of dawn, the sound of the nib inking deep.”
Make a search on Google:
I am not going to thumb him or any of the related literature on Heaney.
Every one will have to dig a little more, instead of stumblestumblestumble to find him.
Find Heaney. Learn to dig.
“Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.”
(source: Not Heaney. I will not cite my source.)