No Place For Old Men

So, witness what happens. Someone never here before, someone who brings no preconceived idea of what is to happen, who has only heard this word, blog, and begins a first entry not knowing or really caring if likes or comments follow. I have practiced closet writing for years, no one ever reading any of it, even me. It’s my private compulsion, takes inspiration from the moment the pencil (usually) is lifted. Inconsistent of subject, free form in content and direction, like release from my word reservoir in overflow. There will be no consistent theme, no hobby bound subject matter, my hobby, if the h word is even applicable, is letting words go their intended way with the self as fascinated observer. I rant, I wander, wonder, low level philosophize, love being surprised by those moments when the words fly ahead of mind or intent taking me in their wake to places, ideas, not prethought. It is intended as improv., yet only reaches that higher level occasionally. “In the beginning was the word”, not the book, but in actuality, the word, each one a wonder of expressed meaning. By them we are defined.

to launch

into new and uncharted waters, the abandonment of safe haven constructs constricting expansion. The need, it pulses inside of us all and justifies itself as impetus to movement out of ourselves and into new definitions.

Who am I? For years a closeted writer in longhand, pencil on paper, with reams of unseen work, a lifelong Musician. Why step out now? Refer back to the need. It is time. There’s more, in time. For now, we write.

Word as watchword. Word as the crux we orbit. Language as a matrix our entire reality inhabits, we are thus defined. Who are you in no words? Functionally frozen without them, we yet spray them in hasty profusion into atmospheres too often diminished by their presence. Speak carefully, with conviction, seriousness can be high level rewarding. Frivolousness has hordes of adherents, we are not needed there. Move to clearer waters and begin to access the deep well of unresolved potent-ial we all posses. Mind>voice>hand, all informed by, in service to, words. One can write their way to higher ground. As cryptic as this may seem, it’s my currency, I’ll spend it freely. Our task is to allow eventual clarity.

clifover

to launch