The Occasional Crazy Rare Quote # 11

"All men by nature desire to know."

                                              ----  Aristotle

Unfortunately, it's the things we don't know that manage to stay on our mind the most.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Tapping into My Power

Moments ago, I just finished viewing a thunderstorm, complete with large streaks of lightning.  While they were in no way as massive as the one depicted above, they were breathtaking nonetheless.  I must admit that even I find it odd, this fascination I have with thunderstorms.  I enjoy going outside and watching.  Taking in the chaos.  Perhaps this says something about me, but I'll delve into that on another writing occasion.

Tonight, I am thinking about power.  Witnessing a thunderstorm, being within its midst as the loud crashes and illuminating flashes take place all around you, there has to be a sense of wonder.  The raw power stemming from what feels like every inch of the sky.  As I closed my eyes and began thinking, I started to wish I was this powerful.

Not to say that I want to streak across the sky or rumble through the clouds.  But in my everyday life, I wish I could tap into the energy of me, and release it as a thunderstorm.

A flash of ideas.  A seismic quake of possibilities.  My creativity forking out in bright branches, visible for all to see.  The sound of my promise echoing in the pits of anyone within range.

I want to tap into the power of me.  And I believe I can.

Confidence is the first step.  I have long downed myself as not being in the same position as others, for whatever reason.  But I'm beginning to realize that position is simply when potential has been realized and put forth into plan.  I haven't reached this point yet.  For far too long, I have been the constant reworking of a plan, instead of a plan set forth in motion.

Most people get caught up in planning, without ever understanding that the best way to formulate a plan is to try it out.  Failure is a much better tool to streamline a plan than simply scrapping it and attempting to brainstorm something better.

So now, I move into a mode of action.  Hopefully, in the end, my full power will be realized.

By then, I want to know how to use it.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Just A Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

I can imagine a conversation with her...on living, on writing, and purple things...

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

An Interesting Scene Got Me Thinking

Earlier this evening while outside on the balcony, I witnessed a moment that made me smile.  And then it got me thinking.  The scene, a father with his son, trying to teach the young boy to ride a small tricycle, created an ache within me that has been here ever since I moved, but has never really manifested itself, until now.

I really miss him.

I miss his curly hair, which mimics my own, when I was a child.  I miss his small fingers that are always grasping, and at night, when he sleeps beside me, usually find some way to play with my beard.  I miss that tiny voice, a ball full of cuteness, which spills out thoughts many years beyond his age.  And I miss those eyes, innocent and reassuring, telling me that no matter what choices I've made, there is love that lives within them.

I fear one day it will vanish.  That in my absence, it'll be less actions and more choices.  And admittedly, I've made some poor ones.  Beyond the fact that I chose to be a horrible match for his mother, I am afraid that my son will see my moving here as a decision to place him second.  That the better life I seek for myself, him, and all of our families, will do very little to sleight the sting of me not being there.  For the first few months of his life, I was there every day.  Many of those days, the very first and last set of eyes he'd see when waking or before falling asleep would be my own.  I hope, for both our sake, he has subconsciously latched hold of these memories, and he uses them as a blanket for the chill of far too many days where I am gone.  I don't want my son to only know me as a handful of scattered visits and awkward phone calls.

I want to hold him in my arms and tell him

"Just because I'm not there, it doesn't mean I don't love you."

I want to kiss him and squeeze him tightly, making him laugh and smile, and never cry.

I want to show him how much he means to me.

Because I fear at some point, these days will matter.  And my absence will speak louder than any words.

One day, my son may ask me,

"Daddy, why did you go?"

I guess I just hope that the answer I give him is enough to salvage his love, which I can't help but feel is lessening.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Because Growth is a Process

Minor Miracle

Which reminds me of another knock-on-wood   

memory. I was cycling with a male friend,

through a small midwestern town. We came to a 4-way   

stop and stopped, chatting. As we started again,   

a rusty old pick-up truck, ignoring the stop sign,   

hurricaned past scant inches from our front wheels.   

My partner called, “Hey, that was a 4-way stop!”   

The truck driver, stringy blond hair a long fringe

under his brand-name beer cap, looked back and yelled,

                “You fucking niggers!”

And sped off.

My friend and I looked at each other and shook our heads.   

We remounted our bikes and headed out of town.   

We were pedaling through a clear blue afternoon   

between two fields of almost-ripened wheat   

bordered by cornflowers and Queen Anne’s lace   

when we heard an unmuffled motor, a honk-honking.   

We stopped, closed ranks, made fists.

It was the same truck. It pulled over.

A tall, very much in shape young white guy slid out:   

greasy jeans, homemade finger tattoos, probably   

a Marine Corps boot-camp footlockerful   

of martial arts techniques.

“What did you say back there!” he shouted.   

My friend said, “I said it was a 4-way stop.   

You went through it.”

“And what did I say?” the white guy asked.   

“You said: ‘You fucking niggers.’”

The afternoon froze.

“Well,” said the white guy,

shoving his hands into his pockets

and pushing dirt around with the pointed toe of his boot,   

“I just want to say I’m sorry.”

He climbed back into his truck

and drove away.

---  Marilyn Nelson