Buffers, Les élus

The eternity of forms

Battling intense mood swings and depressive episodes is not easy — and it’s harder when we forget the little things that made us dream and look forward to a better tomorrow. Even worse, we tend to discard and leave behind the small habits that keep us connected to the “now” — which is the more important between the past and the future.

One of my small creations

Recently, I bought a new journal — engraved with a drawing of the Little Prince (my best friend) hanging by small ropes to a flock of birds, taking flight off his tiny planet and into the unknown. A line underneath the drawing reads, “L’essential est invisible pour les yeax.” The essential is invisible to the eyes.

It’s true. Once I started writing in that journal — after months and months of leaving this habit– I realized that I had the answer all along: I shouldn’t look outside of myself to battle my demons. But perhaps I should look inside, to the things that I already have and thought  I lost, and instead of battling demons, perhaps I should befriend them, even love them. They’ve lived with me for so long, I’m probably their only home. I wouldn’t throw them away.

I’m loyal to strange things.

Writing, and sketching — creating form, ink on paper. Therein lies the magic that perhaps will free me one day. In my first entry, I wrote, “When writing, a person is in the moment, like right now. If you’re focused on getting ink on paper, nothing becomes more important than ink on paper. And within the ink and the words, there’s a certain magic, an incantation and a spell. Am I going crazy? Or is this me finally becoming sane? Finding beauty in the mundane. Or more correctly finding miracles in small things.

Words have a god. And whoever masters words becomes close to this God. If you become a word, the word, you become god. This is the essence of spirituality: becoming infinite inside something. Consigning your soul — this limitless presence– to a single point in space. Points are timeless, or rather not bound by time.”

Self portrait

So are words. And so will you, if you focus so much on the task of producing a word on paper that you disappear in it. Watch the pen move, the ink dispensed, sink into the pores of the paper, grow and stem out into a form that gives meaning, makes sense. Suddenly, the ink takes on new meanings. It becomes alive in the shape that it has created. Iqraa, read it back, breathe in, breathe out, in, out and everything changes. This is the present. Welcome to it.

Words can change the world.

How can this idea not be healing?

Similarly, I tried to re-explore sketching. A beautifully talented Tweep gave me a drawing book, as gift, a week earlier, and I haven’t stopped drawing ever since. And last night, I wasn’t too afraid — as I always were before– to share that bit of myself. So I posted some of these online, and I even changed my Twitter avatar to a self-portrait that I have drawn myself.

Will all this cure my dark episodes? It might. And if not, then it will remain there as testimony to how I tried.

“Nous écrivons des choses eternelles.”

Listening to: Nothing
Mood: Indescribable, hovering in a grey area between happiness and sadness.
Wants from the Universe: Love, love, love and more love. For people, and for things. Mostly, for myself. Because I need that.

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Les élus

They dance on my paper …

One of my drawings, this one didn't dance though. She flew!

I’m holding a shiny sword
I’m talking to three people
One of them I haven’t met since college
And two others who change faces
All of which I thought I forgot
I’m drawing figures but they’re already there
On paper
Already there
Dancing on paper
Dancing for me
Challenging me to pin them down and draw them again
I see them, I see them
And that’s why I think I can draw them with perfection

My mind tells me to write
Write what’s already there
On the paper with the drawings, dancing for me
And I see them, I see the words
And they’re already written
And that’s what my mind tells me
It tells me not to invent
But to copy the form
And to follow the form
And to forget that there is pen, that there’s paper
Only what’s already there for me to pencil and write

It’s a trick, my mind taught me a trick
And it was during sleep
Oh, it was in a dream

Now I remember the figures with hoods
And the robes
And the staffs
Dancing for me
Daring me to put my pen down
And find them
Daring me to change them
Daring me to think for my own
And I put my pen down to follow the lines
And they dance
And they dance
But I follow the lines

The voice in my head tells me to ignore it
Ignore the inventor
And become a god of lines
A god who follows the lines
As they twitch
As they switch
As they run from each other
As they rage
As they change
As they dance
Yes, they dance
On my paper

(I wrote it in 2009, after several attempts at trying to draw several comic book characters, as I saw them in my head, and failing. One night after giving up on the pen, I dreamt that someone was telling me -perhaps it was my Voice- to just follow the lines that are already there, to follow the form, to imagine that my characters were already there on paper and that I was just tracing them like kids do to learn drawing. I decided to try this the next morning. It didn’t work, but it produced this silly poem, which I like.)