On Darkness and Light.

Perhaps chiefly in order to energize and motivate myself, I like to fancy that I'm a warrior for Love and Light. Love, because it brings us all up; and Light, because it reveals the truth of things. I may not achieve victory in every skirmish I find myself in, but firm in a purpose I believe in, I will remain undaunted; though I may have to lick my wounds before I charge onward. And charge onward I must, because there are many beautiful things in this world that even my little torch might help reveal.

Of course, to reveal those beautiful things I must venture into the darkness where they remain hidden, and consequently an understanding of that dark territory is essential for my survival and success there. I point this out because some folks remain under the unfortunate impression that I am all butterflies, patchouli, hugs and sunshine. If I am, it's because of a conscious preference for these things as opposed to cockroaches, bile, stabbings and death. But let us not make the mistake of supposing that any of these things – light or darkness – are either bad or good, for they are neither. They are one, however.

I have always loved my name, though living up to it has been trickier than I thought it would be. Grey isn't a battle between black and white, but rather a balanced, homogeneous and harmonious union of the two. I embrace the shadow, because only then can I lift it into light. So if you have only ever known and imagined me as a Huggist, brace yourself. You aren't deceived, you just haven't got the whole picture. I've pointed all of this out so that you don't stumble upon some of the darker work I'll post here and think something has gone terrible with me. Of course something has gone terrible, for all of us, and sometimes it seems that things continue to go terribly. But I'll traverse those terrors hoping that the shine I keep will carry you and me back into the wonderful. That's the aim. So fear not! Let's play in the dark.


THIS TOO SHALL PASS

When I have a hissy fit

I quiet down, curl up, sit

and seethe, and in my minds eye see

my veins cascading out of me

through thick slits in my wrists --

like Spider-Man, to save the day! --

except I just watch my innards on display:

a scarlet array of so many branches

that grows as I waver and fall back on my haunches

and breathe, while the din of my heart

pulses the bloody tree into life, and into art.

Then, in an inevitable twist

the iron in my blood begins to rust

and the disemboweled tree of my life turns to dust:

capillaries crumble and arteries flake

till it's all small enough for the wind to take

away from me and into space

where, dear God, please grant me grace.