June 10, 2018
So very often the borderlands, the tremendous and unavoidable spaces in between, are romanticized beyond recognition. The betweenness of a thing begins to hum with its own meaning; despite betweenness’ being a sort deformation on the shape of meaning itself. Still, it’s mishapened husk is still husk. It’s vitality still vital. It comes to life in the midst of me and constrains me to its whims, shuttering with its own sort of distinction.
And we sigh because we know what we signify and what’s to come here in the in-between. Like a subway or bus schedule, it has its rhythm. So we forgive it. And we languish in a sort of shallow expectation for the next and the new. So we romanticize these moments. We tend to romanticize less that betweenness that comes from the mundane, even though its betweenness is intact. A badly thought out traffic pattern leaving us just outside of the expected flow, or rhythm of a city plan. City’s are designed in units of time. Or, how about the betweenness of food’s sell by date? How we glean one part of its journey, a rather utilitarian one, and thus we fail to acknowledge its brief, magical existence as something digestable—infusable.
The shape of my waking life seems to reflect the shape of my spiritual one. At least if I squint hard enough. My literal betweenness is my metaphorical betweenness.
In my case, betweenness is my sitting in an office that’s just far enough away from cell towers that my phone only gets reception when its overcast, or for some reason, really windy. I didn’t realize that wind speed could affect the distance frequencies outside of the range of human vision could travel. More strange deformations. Either of physics or my own reasoning skills and it’s more likely the latter. Still, sunny days thieve my connectivity to the world and invoke the era best embodied by the liquid crystal displays that adorned the ‘LBE’ bricks Nokia made famous once upon a time ago.
If it’s overcast maybe I’ll be able to make contact with other people. Other persons. The voices will come through the cards. The synchronicities will hit with perfect timing. The offerings to the right spirits will hit at the right moment. The chance encounters will look less and less chancy the longer you and I, love, remain within its crinkly off-piste margins. When we occupy the conventionality of the unconventional is where and when the weird gets in. Makes a connection. Let’s you scroll the twitter feed of saints and spirits.
But for me, right now it’s sunny. A web-ex invitation to an online shamanic class sits unopened in my inbox. Guess I’m stranded here. I couldn’t care less about magic. About divination. About any of it right now. There’s work to do, dammit. Work that doesn’t blow up in my face or fail outright. Work that’s work and comes with mundane but predictable rewards. I get to bask in the glow of conventional conventionality. It glows. It hums. A swarming buzz of city street light filling a clear night sky with a cloud of iridescent ignorance.
Firmament be damned, the sky is down here. Here, where I can press my lips into its light laid bare, its trembling reflections, quenching madness.