Concerning That Which Cannot Be Understood

Filling the Void

As I sit here and write this, it's about four in the morning and I have a cup of hot tea and a big sweater. And a box of tissue. All I hear are the ticks of two clocks. Not one, but two, their ceaseless mechanical netronomic drones slightly off beat from one another so it sounds like galloping hooves or something, where one leg is weaker than the other. I don't know what I'm doing up at four. Having returned from the other side of the world, I surely have a case of jet lag, but I could've stayed in bed and rode the waves of wake and sleep, blurring consciousness. But I woke up realizing how pathetically solitary this place is in stark contrast to where I had just come from. Solitude is much needed and a good thing for the soul, for the heart, for the mind, especially as a writer. Like Murakami, as he records in his memoir "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running", I don't need company. I can do fine without most of the time. But every now and then, the extrovert networker, the community leader, the do-er rattles its cages and cries for attention. In my philosophies of "Transcendence", (I did just watch the movie starring Johnny Depp on the plane back and it was quite nice unlike the angry reviews from friends and colleagues - a bit, or very anticlimatic, but still, raises many questions and was interesting enough. Though the name "Transcendence" came from elsewhere.) it is necessary to exist on the higher plane of consciousness, residing or attempting to reside in the collective, the universals, the dimension with no alpha or omega and where all human consciousness is pooled into one and the spirit accesses the divine. So solitude in this sense is absolutely necessary, it is an inward and then a vertical movement, as if rising through the body up through the mind like a phoenix from the ashes. And as I write now, I note the same thing happening - this expansion and eruption of the consciousness and imagination and the synapses fusing and coalescing into amalgamous construct and linguistic structure.

But solitude here in the suburbs of Canada is not a choice, or a practice, it is a condition, just purely an it-is-so. You would need to brave the winter cold, strap on clothing like armor, heat the car, maybe scrape the ice and shovel the driveway on bad days, just to get anywhere, even if it is five minutes down the street. Of course, you wouldn't be seeing another human being except for cars, until you reach your destination. Here, in the darkness, all around is a formidable silence - sometimes a creak or two, the chugging of the clocks, sometimes the hum of the fridge or roar of the heater, but for the most part, silence. The lights are down low, so the screen glows science-fiction white and somewhere far away a lamp burns like a dying star. Empty, quiet, vacant, vast and solitary are the words of the night. It is like being put on a solo space voyage with no end past the point of abandonment. I don't know who put me here and when I was put here.

Back in Asia, I had looked forward to returning to Canada, because I simply couldn't write during most of my trip. It was too crowded, too busy, too noisy. Every moment, there was someone in that moment, and simply not enough space to share. I had a long score of people to meet and exchange moments with. There was urban energy everywhere but also a dead routine mechanism, symbolic of the capitalist economy. Everyone was there but not there, doing but not thinking. Regardless, writing or not, at least I still had a choice. I could have stomped my feet and said, no I will not go anywhere today, or do anything. Today is going to be a day of solitude and silence. I could have simplified my life, skipped various things and went into hiding. Perhaps head to the countryside with a few trains. Though I didn't, I could have theoretically done so. But in Canada, I can't say today I will climb into a void to get some writing done, or to have a time of thought and prayer - because it is all the time and in a very intimidating vast abundance. Here, you struggle to hold on to consciousness, or you will waste away. I can easily imagine the reason for gaming addictions, or movie marathons, long distance Skype calling even though it may only be the distance of a few kilometers of wintry air. You have to make consciousness occur or you become nothing. In Asia, you become nothing by being in too much something.

I feel like I am writing a letter stranded from a small island in tropic waters, wearing rags and stripping bark from trees. Then I will put this letter in a bottle and let it float somewhere.

At least, in this void, I can write. I exist in the void so that I can fill the void.

Toronto, December 31st, 2014