While listening to Dvorak, Symphony #8 in G minor
When I sit outside I breathe
great gulps of space,
but Wind reminds me who’s
really the boss of the grassland.
Wind makes its way through the goodness
of the world, and through the terrors of the world.
I need raw, tempestuous energy;
inspiration burning in the blood—
Fiery. Wild. Original.
Screw neatness; tidy categories; tight forms;
screw creative limitations of any kind.
I want to be devoured by passion
and freedom of the journey;
by silence and exile.
Absolute truth is beyond our grasp.
The only asylum is non-existence.
I’m free to not know,
I can rest in mystery.
I may not understand what I believe,
but I know it will sound like dignity.
My doubts are sacred.
God, stay close as I wander.
From: Getting There
Unpub. MS p. 29
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