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Ralph Eugene Meatyard, Untitled

if i want to be read, i must be willing to be misread. one cannot speak without being willing to be misunderstood. but perhaps being misread even by a stranger is the equivalent, for me, of being misunderstood by a friend or love—

i might remember, before i choose silence, that silence was chosen for me. but i don't need to continue making that choice—

when i can, i still choose silence, most of the time—

maybe the concept of being misread will be like depression: though i have dedicated an extensive amount of time to dealing with my depression and developing techniques to avoid it or shift my perspective away from it or overcome it, the most effective way of dealing with it is to accept it. to ask why it is there, to understand what i can do for my depressed self, instead of fighting my depressed self—

is it helpful to accept an inevitable return of depression? maybe it's not inevitable. but it is possible—

being misunderstood is inevitable. some attribute this to the nature of language itself. i usually attribute this, when it occurs to me, to be a result of my own insufficiencies in language-use—

and is this because i need to believe in the efficiencies of language? what kinds of belief, personal and social, are embedded in the creation and use of language?—

why do some people attribute every hesitation to fear? maybe every hesitation is a result of fear—

if i was silenced, i wanted to be Silence—

it wasn’t fear for myself that made me hesitate to act, to speak, to publish. it was the fear of hurting others—

how close is Silence to Depression? do they need each other? what was i giving up when i gave up the idea of never needing anything? as i child i think the only hope i truly had for myself was to be a saint—

even the music i most loved kept space for Silence inside it—

sacrifice = silence = Silence = so i was unselved = so i would be a saint = so i could be with god—

this is what it meant to me to be a mystic, “to leave god for god” (Meister Eckhart)—

wasn’t that an unresolvable contradiction though? if i wanted to be chosen, didn’t that mean i believed myself worthy of being chosen, and if i believed myself worthy, didn’t that mean i wasn’t?

some fears are appropriate. only luck (and not Luck—i do not think—not some independent entity that cares about me, not the Universe) kept me many times from suffering from a lack of fear, a defiance of fear—which allowed me to be here to write this. to be read and to be misunderstood—

it’s your own meaning you are making while reading. make of it what you will.

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what haunts you? what haunts you the most? that is what is asking you to be written.

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what is poetry? for me, it is contained in a fable that haunted me as a boy: 1 kings 19:

Ahab, the king, came to Jezebel, and told her he had killed all the prophets—excepting Ezekiel. Jezebel sent word to Ezekiel promising him the same death. a painful death.

Ezekiel left behind his life. after a day, he entered the wilderness. by this time he was without food. he sat down beneath a juniper tree, and told God he was ready to die. then he slept.

an angel touched him, so that he woke. the angel told him to eat and drink the food and water that appeared before him. after he ate, Ezekiel slept again. again the angel woke him, and told him to eat and drink the food and water that appeared before him. because, the angel said, you do not have the strength to make the journey you must make.

Ezekiel then walked for forty days, without eating or drinking again, to the mountain where he had heard God lived.

in the mountain he found a cave, and slept there. then the voice of God came to him—not God, the voice of god—asking Ezekiel what he did there.

i have been jealous, Ezekiel said: jealous for you. all the others are gone. only i am left.

then stand before God, the voice of God said. and Ezekiel went out in front of the cave.

then a great wind came along the mountainside, breaking and shattering rocks; but God was not in the wind. and after the wind, there came an earthquake; but God was not in the earthquake. and after the earthquake, there came a fire; but God was not in the fire.

and after the fire, there came a still, small voice. and Elijah wrapped his face in his mantle, and listened.

for me, that’s what poetry is: the still, small voice.

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Kazimir Malevich, Black Square (1915)

"Silence is no weakness of language.
It is, on the contrary, its strength.
It is the weakness of words not to know this."

—Edmond Jabés, The Book of Questions