reflection may

5/18/21

2,000-word reflection,

Ryan Lawlor

It is the springtime of my life, as may has found us in her bright hue and rife with the setting of a mountain honeybee as I doth sit in the shade on a sunny day and for what its worth, compose a letter of reflection to ponder upon. The works of all the great literature and muses to whom which the authors called all stir my heart with gaiety and abounding joy. The story of troy divine and of Milton’s prose, is the becoming thing I ponder as I change my clothes. As I pour my coffee, I am reminded of that sacred scripture which says, “Wash the inside of the cup so the outside may become clean.” On wanton wax or some ancient, unearthed artifact I direct my gaze and am reminded that we all drink from the same cup. So as the ripening spring blossom speaks youth and desire into my heart, I am overjoyed in all that is becoming, all that in my hopes I can place a trust in humanity, and in all that is good I can seek my light.

Night, and his pale career finds me oft in the reflections of the silvery setting moons eye, as the tide stirs, so does my breast. But since that scene is Comley, I shall have a vessel for the finer as I “Take a little dross from the silver.” Like that messianic message the psalmist wrote about his lord, today I have begotten my son. And the wicked may bend their bow but they will be sore shaken by my lord of lord who sits in the highest of heaven. A day is long vexed by the toils of man and his deed. In labor, like the folklorist Aesop said about the ant, “Toil, toil.” Then will you find meat in the season, given you work for your daily bread. So as passed tales other folk writers inspire me, I can also talk about that fine maiden locked up in a tower by a witch with her long golden hair, letting it down for her betrothed and fine prince. Until he fell into thorns and poked out his eye and went blind. Until he found Rapunzel in the desert and her tears washed his wound and they lived happily ever after. Or iron henry, who iron clad heart burst out of his chest when he saw the return of his lord. And in the carriage carrying them into their kingdom the iron bands round his heart kept bursting for joy. Or of Hansel and Gretel who were so far lost in the woods and conspired against by an old croon whose house windows were made from sugar. They were almost taken as a meal until Gretel showed the witch how to fit in the oven. And their miseries were over and fondly they could return home to their father. Grimm tales apparently were passed down through bookish peoples in Ireland. The tales are mostly looked at as children’s stories although any one person interested in literature can seemingly find a good value for them.

The epoch of ancient Greece and the oratory tradition of homer passes through my mind as the great tales of the Iliad and of the odyssey and other things such as Greek plays from the likes of Plautus. Their relevance to human significance is large and undoubtably important as science and history and philosophy from these schools of thought became such a staple into modern democracy, Literature and even our plays and films and music’s.

Xanthus, the horse spoke to Achilles before he set off to fight the river. He predicted his death, untimely death. But Achilles spoke to him and said why must you tell me these things I already know of my destiny. But by the name of Xanthus brings one other character in Greek literature, one found in a play where he is the slave to the god of wine Dionysus. There they meet Hercules and attempt to make it into the gates of hades. Also, a place where Aesop was slave to in the region of Xanthus, where there he won freedom through his many fables.

But for me I wonder at these things but am simply happy to exist in such a matter of time and place where I am at no fault of my own able to read the classics without such a thing larger in my mind than to write an examination essay. However, intriguing that may seem to some stately professor in some eclectic classroom somewhere. For me it is simply the love I have in my own heart that propels some of these endeavors. Writing for me is as simple as letting the words fall into place on a paper as I type them with my keyboard. A long essay might be harder to get into exact form if you keep looking for all the best words ego can offer you as you place them into their proper place in an exalted paragraph.

Thus, I am oft not the trying kind. Thus, I am oft the lying kind. Thus, I am a deceiver of truth and fond of the folly. Thus, I am a sinner as the first day I found my dear Christ. Thus, I am an expletive in your vernacular of brute language. Thus, I am a day older but not one second wiser. Thus, I am just your fool.

That old prophet at Chebar, also that prophet who rakes in the coals, The tenants of hell, Spake to his foes, Said lemme see your head, or for what it is, and I shall slay the remainder, A solemn reminder, A comely empire, fit for a king, a dance with the devil, a harp on a string, In evoking that tune, the one that wax with the moon, befalls us on gaiety and to hum with the loon.

If ever the beast had fell to a pit, now is the time to claim our respite, on grief and woes, that injured like no other, the carnal minded sinner, will fall with thou brother, and alas to an avail, shall the seraph come to depart us our coils, as a mortal man comes to find myriad toils. With our heavenly father among the highest of gods, Shall reap our souls with the prophets rods.

Greif, rumor, sleep, and muses. Are upon my mind like the goddess dawn. Another day I experience and must not stay long. But no tears were falling along with the lawn. A virtue, a blessed sight, a day to come. A rising moon tide along with his brethren among. In a day I adorn myself to live amongst shade, as the sun sets, and I am reminded of the fade. Thy pale career night brings us a task, to enjoy the comforts of home and to sip from a flask. But my fool cannot see, drinking is no career, but that’s neither here nor is it there. For manhood is something all men must bear. Heavy load to a man who does not think that its fair. But in weathering storms we all must dare. In loving another, as like a brother, there must be some, some, who care. But, alas gathered, sold with the tare. A hefty price for one who sows good. Thy taxes will come, come in their day. And may all who pay honor they should.

What is science without a good book? What is man without the ability to look? What are ears if they are sold to the muses? For ten cents of truth that our ego bruises? How can one simply be? Among the cosmos in an empty nook, having a look into some story book, in a cove amongst a stony brook. In vain contemplation weighing emotions and vexed by turmoil and many commotions. As simple as this man may be, his storied time here lives in lines of a tree. As one without this simplicity, must be a blemish on society. But then how did we get as far as we are? Without selling our souls for the price of a car. Or how did we make a fortune as fools, by selling our talents in labor to schools?

“The youth to temperance, in vein pretends, Who goes to taverns and makes rakes his friends, but to maidens who care to live without stain, Should never choose to lodge at Drury lane.” – Birds of a feather flock together.

The fable expresses to chose the company you keep. As the geese who swears loyalty and humility got caught in the same net and was then taken with the others.

There is a bit of idiosyncratic cynicism going round, like where Nihilists pursuing our own subjective bit of hopelessness. Put it on the other coin manifestly i synonymize with the self-regulating stubborn gladness of positivism. Or to put it objectively were denying our self-liberation to aspects of the mundane. We should treat each person to his own end with honesty, kindness, compassion, giving or a sense of spirit that we are here to help each other. Not rash judgment, because the lesson that needs learning is that you will be judged.

Cynical self-indulgence seems to be the fashion of this new aged egotistic hedonism, addicted in some form to some type of soul-destroying thing that derives no benefit to anyone. (Not saying I’m not guilty of this or my other attachments. Who says I’m not guilty of it right now) I am simply implying there should be less self-serving means to benefit your own ego or soul? Being that this is most possibly an implicit letter to my Facebook page and however they sell my data or decide it’s in their best interests to sell mangle fictionalize or marginalize myself, i stand to say there are certain underlying things that being a sentient, intelligent, pretty handsome awkward, Person that I can imply i have rights and freedoms that can’t be expressly used for "Analytics" Or Advertisement". Although I do remember when this was all farmland and connecting to people seemed relevant.

I support the Epicurean procedure of thought that comes from the likes of stoics and other ancient sages but refuse to see its implications in the self-serving, utilitarian, modern era of narcissism, technological ego porn, and ecological abandonment. Like Marcus Aurelius Once said, "I do what I do, the rest doesn't bother me". That is why i like to write. I can bleed myself dry on a page in a word document and indulge myself into a self-inoculated trance and then just not expect anyone to care, give judgment or even be interested in what I have to say. Like the late, great Bukowski once said, "Don't try." Because of this reflection i give zero to little fucks about what value judgment is derived by my words, the moniker of what i aim saying would just be another reproduced self-confabulated mercurial high or other sense of Ego decimation that would result in the hurt, blame or other form of entropy or destruction of another person’s perfectly intact executive functions. Me writing, is objectively an idiosyncratic chromatic cynicism.

I experience another day. I am grateful. I am happy. I am loving. This is hard.