The graphology of now (poem)
Handwriting is one of those concise
almost insular mediums
because of its construction and constraints,
yet it still persists profoundly demonstrating
the wholeness with which we move on with life.
We, as a compendium of all that is
and all that has happened,
are carried forward into our living.
So therefore, to declare,
if a written page were dimensionally the scale
of a mountainous terrain
and its surface were so delicately malleable to the touch
as to record in depth the full orchestration
of the hand dance across it,
then what we would we find?
At a behemoth scale, capable of detecting
the carving nature and contours of the characters
of the written words, its highs and lows,
its swerves and contours, its peaks and pressures,
its word assemblages and relative frames,
its stall points and rushes, its swirls and dashes,
its zigzags and accentuates, its dead zones and its slides,
its hologram of breath and surrender,
what would we really find?
As if these aspects were duly noted,
characterizes accordingly and richly compared,
letters to letters, words to words, content to impact,
intent to movement animation,
negative space to emotional presence,
omissions and admissions to elephants in the room,
traumas buried in sidebar eccentricities,
vacancies to overwhelms,
we would find, uniqueness to each person’s writing style?
These are the forest-for-the-trees
that are unconsciously buried
but repeated over and over in that writing across the page.
Those SOS’s so muted yet but delicately placed.
This is an insistence, so unforgiving
and so psyche innocent in task that there is
this new frontier of science even beyond metaphor.
So it seems that we are all in chorus,
primarily just in a low voiced almost muted hum.
We leave a traceable trail by our writing and a landscape
unquestioned across each page until it is a windfall
by this means and becomes an eventful experience
of itself and thus a summation and revelation,
taking from its symbolic status,
up from the deeps of the living it,
borne by hand from the past into the world of intention
and meaning and gesture,
only to fall back once again, letter upon letter,
laid down as in living.
We journey on, as the tablet of these crossings.
Our burden appearing less than the obviousness
of our deeds but none the less still decipherable
as any moment is always all moments
as the stroke of then is becoming one
in the written moment of our now . . .