I know two things for certain: 1) I am. 2) And the time is always now. It’s neither then nor there, it’s perfectly here and now, every time. Yet how many things are considered by their cause and effect? How many changes are merely reduced to a before and after, comparison and contrast? I say BE DONE! with the whole arrangement.
Whitman, the ol’ kook of a naturalist, said forthright:
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.
Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.
I am satisfied–I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night,
and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?
Whitman’s “Song” is everyone’s dance. We are singular miracles and mathematical certainties, composed of stardust and clay, conducted with electromagnetic biorhythms. We are alive, pulsing with energy, aware of our awakened conscience, taking flight in joyful reverie. We live for the moments while yet we build for a brighter tomorrow upon the dreams of yesterdays kisses, or as the comedian who cultivates potential laughter from past scorn.
Must we habitually reference our current state to a previous one, as an improvement or degradation, or is it possible to accept the unique and momentous occasion that is now as the real desired outcome. Because we manifest our innermost beliefs as external realities, it is our beliefs that come out. We believe what we desire, whether real or imagined, and so our visible world is an extension of our yearnings, both superficial and spiritual.
We will not believe our reflection, for instance, if we desire to be more attractive, and so that desire becomes a super-reality that is not scrutinized or held accountable for its verity or actuality. We idle restlessly in this now wandering in and out of dreams of former bliss and foolhardy projections of future content. Can we not embrace the man in the mirror as not only a work in progress, but an end, in and of himself?