Who is this scrivener that writes this esoteric discombobulation? What is he saying in this jumbled melee of words… What is it with his epexegetic discourse of terse and often exotic pontifications?
Oh, wait… I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Let’s try this once more…
Who is this guy who writes in an English language that is sometimes difficult to follow, often with words that are not commonly used by many of us, and in such short bursts of phrases that we have to read the explanations twice to understand the point?
I had a conversation with myself about this.
Self: “It is your style Steve, you are a Demi-poet, a wounded soul.”
Steve: “Yes, it is my style and yes, I am wounded, but that does not make one a cryptic writer.”
Self: “Perhaps you grew up like Nell with an abnormal nurturing of your writing skill. You just see the world differently.”
Steve: “Well, everyone grows up with some handicap, some particular trait that was nurtured for good or ill. Doesn’t everyone see the world differently?”
Self: “I guess I am just trying to say, you’re a bit of a weirdo.”
Such is my internal critic of Socratic Vulnerability.
I feel my inner geek waking up… oh yeah, here she comes. That sexy, alluring inner geek of my anima, which I’d better identify as my feminine quality; the Muse. Socrates was famous for his marketplace conversations in 5th century Athens. He and his students engaged in spirited discussions of fascination over ideas and issues. These discourses probed deeply into the challenges of life and fostered an intellectual atmosphere that pursued the art of inquiry; a Socratic Vulnerability.
So perhaps that is it? I am experiencing Socratic Vulnerability in pursuit of this practice. Seeking an atmosphere of inquiry which probes deeply into my life’s challenges. If I cannot find it, I create it. Perhaps that is the best way to explain my particular style. I desire to provoke the thought and beyond that, the diligent reader who holds a resonance to my story. In other words, I seek the thinkers and thoughtful dwellers of the language that transcends language where words cannot make sense of a matter. Aristotle held that poetry was more universal than history, as history provides what is particular, but poetry communicates in metaphor to the universal mind.
I write what emerges in me, often the joyful or painful present moment. I am not a victim though my writing may at times engender some empathy. I am an explorer; an absolutely resilient spirit of organic life (not to suggest I only eat organic vegetables). Life being organic is a life of many elemental parts living in harmony. I throw nothing out, but metabolize everything good and bad. In this way, everything enters my story in esoteric discombobulation, uh, I mean, the confusing and cryptic way that it does. If you find it hard to understand, try living it, right?
Since I write by serendipity (which is to say I write with beneficent spontaneity, happy chance), you can follow my experience through my writing. It is a serial narrative of my life streaming on the current channel (Firefly Horizons) stopping at every weigh station (enlightenment, grief, joy, contentment). Consider my first two blogs:
Both illustrate getting in touch with the initial projection of my creative. They held an enthusiasm to express myself in another way, a way which felt somehow familiar but from a very long time ago. In these you found my hope of re-entry. My next two blogs show the measure of transformation as I am metered and diminished by the power of the patriarchy through the animus possessed accuser:
Malevolent Memory: Days of Tragedy and Grace
These are my expository experiences of pain, loss, and diminishment husbanded by my unyielding vibrancy for a more considered life. There is at least one who would wish to geld me… well, uh… essentially castrate me, and there are far more who collude in the act unconsciously. In these posts you witness what is in motion within me.
The Provocative Seed
So yeah… you guessed it. It’s all about me. I am writing to deep space like a radio signal that bounces around until it is received on a particular antenna that is tuned to a particular frequency. It is about me until it becomes real to someone else, and in that moment, it becomes about them and their story. One day I may write a different way, about different things, but today you have been invited into my rebirth which involves your witness of my developmental process; my return to a life once felt but never fully known.
My writing is often a poetic labyrinth, but its message is meant to be decoded by those who recognize confusion is sometimes uninterpreted illumination. Reading my thoughts admittedly requires a bit of intuition. I am a thinker looking for thinkers. I hope to provoke the thought, first in me, then in you. If I can ignite my own understanding, the blaze is set for anyone choosing to roast their contemplative marshmallow.
It is better to provoke a thought than win an argument. An argument takes precedence over our thoughts in its need to survive; its contest steals our energy. We have only so much life-flow/life-energy to give. It is a precious natural resource and great wisdom must be employed in spending such energy. We seldom win minds with an argument, but a mind can be transformed by a subtle provocation, a provoking thought that approaches without aggression or certainty. In this way, the thought can take seed and sprout as the mind adapts peacefully with it. Provoking the thought is the antithesis to the duality of arguing a particular premise (which is often a forceful measure). Provocation of thought has the potential to inspire deeper contemplation which, if nurtured, can lead auspiciously to healing absolutions.
I hope I have provoked yours.
The passionate Phoenix of Firefly Horizons and conceptual prognosticator of Mutatis Mutandis reborn through the scorching forge of his annihilation into creative sanctuary. Steve translates the fury of his Phoenix experience into experiential exegesis in search of perspectives not yet in view. Read more about Steve • Articles by Steve