Category Archives: Prose

Passages From “And Let It Remain”

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Here are seven passages taken from my book “And Let It Remain”:

He had chanced to utter things that he instantly regretted, that he knew he never meant, words that merely spoke themselves – that is language sometimes.

He had seen her eyes close. He saw she had lost herself in a possibility, a possibility his words had only suggested, but not foretold; that he might get to a point where he could not stand her – something he immediately said would never happen. But the possibility had been spoken, and people live in possibility. 

–

The endless distractions: a glass of tea here, a cigarette there; a nap, a walk, an endless stretch of daydreams; songs, food, drinks, TV shows, movies; idle talk, video games, gossip. The restlessness that gives way to movement, the movement that gives way to restlessness, and somewhere, floating between, a stillness that seems ephemeral, but only because one tries to hold on to it.

–

She morphed into a cloud, floating in absence, through obscurity, no one there, and yet, there she remained. 

–

She was gone now, but his memories were so painfully vivid; they conjured up her ghost around the buildings, along the pathways and sidewalks, in the forest, and on the hills across the fields. The path went by her room, the path he had to walk every day to get to town. He walked the path daily, and every time he approached her building, his heart would pound, his stomach would drop, and his eyes would try and shoot out from their sockets toward its direction. He always looked, and it always made him feel, and the feeling always made him think, and his thoughts always made him wonder, and his wonder always made him afraid, afraid he had lost her. And with this, the challenge of feeling love at its extreme limits became a delicate test of teetering on the brink of sanity, unsure of whether the disintegration of his mind that seemed to be taking place was, at heart, some divine and cleansing purgation, or the effect of some disastrous misfortune to his psyche, or both. 

–

How does one survive the challenges associated with the mysteries of life? By that I mean the great wonders and the unfathomable beauty that survives without reason or a lasting explanation, always as an incomplete answer, like a divided number with a constant remainder. Do we survive by taking pleasure in the mystery itself, finding peace in the fact that it is a mystery with no complete answer? By indulging in the mystery, by accepting that unanswerable quality as somehow the source of its majesty? What is an answer after all? Does knowing how a flower grows increase the splendor of watching it bloom?

–

The patience with which he heard her speak to her child was enough to impress upon him the conviction that here was a woman confident enough to give all that she could without expectation of anything in return; there was no residue of burden whatsoever placed upon her son that might make him feel responsible for his mother’s happiness or self-worth. Here was devotion given life and made manifest, away from the hollow talk of good intentions and exalted promises, speech which counts for nothing until animated by the moment-to-moment sacrifice that constitutes the worship of living love. 

–

“What bothers me is the hurry and the pace at which we live. We rush through life, creating unpardonable destinies, and then we get to the end, and want it all back.”

The entire book can be found here:

Prose Pieces

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Dashed to pieces against the shores of an arrogant sublimity parading itself down the vaulted corridors of my inner palace; only in my mind, only in thoughts was my reason on firm ground; were such thoughts to venture from the premises and step out into the gilded world, they would find themselves stranded, and what’s worse for a mind mired in self adulation (as all minds are), completely worthless.

–

She was gone now, but his memories were so painfully vivid; they conjured up her ghost around the buildings, along the pathways and sidewalks, in the forest, and on the hills across the fields.

The path went by her room, the path he had to walk everyday to get to town. He walked the path daily and every time he approached her building his heart would pound, his stomach would drop, and his eyes would try and shoot out from their sockets toward its direction. He always looked, and it always made him feel, and the feeling always made him think, and his thoughts always made him wonder, and his wonder always made him afraid, afraid he had lost her forever, and with it, the challenge of feeling love at its extreme limits became a delicate test of teetering on the brink of sanity, unsure of whether the disintegration of his mind taking place, was at heart, some divine and cleansing purgation, or the effect of some disastrous misfortune to his psyche; or both.

–

I could feel my inner adversary warning me through eyes of blotted fire, reminding me of the consequences of failure, wielding guilt – that conjoined bastard twin of the self, congealed to one’s better half and cutting through like a scythe across my gut, the sound of which whispered sounds of the futility in triumph, slicing through my bowels; how any success would never be enough. And yet, to give up – give up what?

–

If only it wasn’t such a struggle to give one’s feelings a home, somewhere inside. Feelings should be welcomed into one’s life to live comfortably along side one’s self instead of being treated like some flat mate reluctantly allowed to live with you for the sake of cheaper rent.

–

All my reasons, my fool-proofed arguments, and land-locked excuses; all my hardness; my determination; all my grit; all was shattered upon seeing her again; from one glance; one look and my gut swelled with desire, the way the sky swells with light from the sun as it makes it’s first nod above the horizon. How does a forest fire begin from a spark? It seems impossible, does it not? but then it happens.

–

He had chanced to utter things that he instantly regretted, that he knew he never meant, words that merely spoke themselves – that is language sometimes.

He had seen her eyes close. He saw she had lost herself in a possibility, a possibility his words had only suggested, but not foretold: that he might get to a point where he could not stand her; something he immediately said would never happen. But the possibility had been spoken, and people live in possibility.

–

Just this once, give up all your memories and embrace the sensation of the ever present void, that “blank check” of creation, dashing itself upon the shores of discernment, not as a conqueror, but as an all-pervading “what will be,” a kind of sempiternal foundation to which an eternity of constructions may lay themselves upon. It does justice to life much as you believe the opposite; if you could but draw reality from the figure of your imagination.

Prose

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“Have you approached the bareness? A kind of skulking before the spirit, amongst the living, yet beyond the stubborn soul, where indifference pries itself into one’s instincts in order to go on living; marching down on the thunder claps of hesitancy with a wide open determination, vast enough to incorporate their power; obsessive enough to continue moving forward?”

–

“Just this once, give up all your memories and embrace the sensation of the ever present void, that “blank check” of creation, dashing itself upon the shores of discernment, not as a conqueror, but as an all-pervading “what will be,” a kind of sempiternal foundation to which an eternity of constructions may put themselves upon. It does justice to life, much as you believe the opposite, if you could but draw nature in the figure of your imagination instead of your mind.”

–

I lay on the floor. Suddenly it felt like my body was a mound, under the soil and covered in earth. From out of this mound grew flowers, the roots of which were underground, tangled up with my body, growing from my organs. Though buried beneath I could perceive the flowers, I could feel their bloom, feel them grow, feel them age as if through seasons. I felt and became these flowers dying, withering and crimping until they laid low. And then suddenly a tree burst from the mound, rising into the air, fully grown, with huge robust limbs and a solid trunk; the flowers were the source of this new life; my organs were the source of it, and it grew from my body.

–

“He was an incredibly sensitive soul. If you ever sat and looked at him for a long period of time it was if he was carrying the weight of the world’s emotions. You could look into his eyes and see the entire world, all the pain and suffering, but all the pleasure and joy as well.

Most people run from that kind of sensitivity, he never did, but it took its toll, and I’m sure more than once he regretted and hated how sensitive he was. But he never betrayed it because he knew it would be a lie.”

–

How does one survive the challenges associated with understanding the mysteries of life? By that I mean the great wonders and the unfathomable beauty that survive without reason or a lasting explanation, always as an incomplete answer, like a divided number with a constant remainder. Do we survive by taking pleasure in the mystery itself, finding peace in the fact that it is a mystery with no complete answer? By indulging in the mystery, by accepting the unanswerable quality as somehow the source of its majesty?

What is an answer after all? Does knowing how a flower grows increase the splendor of watching it bloom?

–

He did not want to live, but he did not want to die; he wanted be alive and to feel life, and for that reason, living, living in a way connected with the expectations and norms of society, felt pointless, unreal, like the life of a mannequin.

“Why live when one can be alive? Yes exactly!” he thought.

–

Incited to feel the heart of attraction itself, lofted into the realm of a source found past to nowhere; moving beyond to a place without motive; leaving intention itself behind?

–

 

A Collection of Prose

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Lost in thought and daydreaming, he carelessly looked around, moving his eyes from the grass, to the birds, to the clouds; from the porch, to the house, to the pavement. Then his eyes landed on the large green leaves on the lawn. He looked up, realizing they had fallen from the giant tree next to the garage. It occurred to him that this tree was shedding leaves even though it was not Fall. He watched the tree as another group of leaves fell from the top. Then he realized: trees shed their leaves in Summer, not because they are dying, but because they are so filled with the sun that they are literally bursting with life. “That is how I want to live,” he thought.

–

She morphed into a cloud, floating in absence, through obscurity, no one there, and yet, there she remained.

–

For me one of the most important things was to realize that life has no time limits, there is no list of things that must be “checked off,” there is no final destination. You have to live without a care for where you end up or how you get there. You have to be present, content with the simple feeling of being alive, and when you do this, time will slowly come to halt; you’ll be puzzled by the dissidence of your momentum, wondering how it is you can go on after revolting, having thrown off the chains of your own impulses. But you’ll breathe again, only this time each breathe will ground you more firmly and with ever deeper roots into the constancy of the all pervading moment.

–

And so I search for the source of that feeling, finding it somewhere at the center of a great pulsation where the light of the universe refracts through an open stretch of darkness, a vast expanse that has lost any and all characteristics for the sake of transcendence.

–

“I was walking through the city. I passed an older woman with a sallow face, and exhausted eyes. She bore the look of quiet desperation. Seeing her, it dawned on me that everyone is trying their best with what they have, doing the most with what they can to live a happy life. After that, looking around, for some reason everyone I saw became more beautiful.”

–

Her real name is something foreign and irrelevant, but in my own mind I call her ‘The Black Rose,’ both for her black hair and for her stunning beauty, with eyes like caves, but not the part of the cave so distant from the opening that no light ever pierces it, but more like that part of a cave where, as one goes deeper, reaches that part where light will touch it for no more than a few steps. A cave is also an appropriate analogy, for it is a cave that contains dark recesses of space that no eye ever sees. Likewise, I will refrain from saying anything more of this woman, and will keep, like a cave, my thoughts somewhere within the dark recesses of my mind, at the risk of otherwise falling victim to my vulnerabilities and vices.

–

That strange time of year when the seasons seemed locked in ambiguity, when Spring can just as easily be Fall and Fall just as easily be Spring; when one knows not whether Spring is transitioning to Summer or Fall transitioning to Winter; when the cool crisp breezes of morning and night make it so, leaving one unsure where he or she is or where he or she is going, fooling one into thinking there is a choice in the matter; perhaps stemming from the seasons themselves, who, aware of the seeming lull between time, gain the desire to move from Spring to Winter or from Fall to Summer, all the while knowing deep down, that such choices are impossible.