Drew T. Noll © 2021, all rights reserved

Thursday, February 25, 2021

My Megilah

 

Tumuli in a Canaanite Graveyard with a View towards the Smoke Stacks over Caesarea —

Tumuli in a Canaanite Graveyard with a View towards the Smoke Stacks over Caesarea —
 
Rubbing my eyes, using the knuckles of my hands, my vision exploded into purple irises blossoming between grains of sand. The moon, as we know, is full of this knowledge as it swings overhead. It fills my eyes with vision and laughs down on me, as in another new profession I stumble within. It’s seen it before, the moon overhead, full and boasting—and again it will no doubt occur. My mind hears the laughter often as the vibrations descend down, with smiles all around. This is my very own megilah, heard as of late, causing some angst but mostly most profound. The purple irises were meant for an oil painting that I’m currently making, but instead or at least inclusive of, the irises spilled out here if only to shed.

This place that I consider home is both small and once large, contained within a space no greater than a skull, but singing out praise vibrating room in which to tell. The telling goes like this: Upon a time once mentioned, the story unfolds in a pristine dimension. In the cradle of love expansion occurs, new professions keep moving forward and to each comes a wake; a moment of love of excitement that careens full force into a wall. And the pattern begins—born, lived, then died, then born again. In each cycle stems another, growth set in patterns and continuing to know. That’s why the irises spilled out now, no doubt a cycle of love caressing the sores developed from a new profession.

Last week I had had enough. I finished testing the sprouts growing down low, but other invigilators began to hit the same wall. We sparred briefly before all was deleted and we moved back to our corners, where neither was seen, or for that matter until now heard from again. All that I could come up with at the time and still now, is that this is the edge of the cycle as each tends to grow, circles in a pond, irises in my head, and all that it tells me has already gone. I can hear it grating at the edge of my mind still, my skull is vibrating with the patterns all around. I rub my eyes to try and see it again, but the edge only lets me hear—bur, a palindrome confusing my mind once again.

Purim sameakh!

Wednesday, January 27, 2021

Strange New Land

It’s a strange new land, having become quite small, but living in it … um, I just can’t put my finger on it. Is it shrinking, or am I growing? Like trying to hold a tiny pin-nail while hammering to connect one piece to the other, my thumb and forefinger, the extremities of me, always take the brunt of my exploits into the unknown. Seeking adventure in life doesn’t help either—walking and riding the desires I wish for with almost total abandon. So, it goes to reason that the far reaches of what I consider ‘me’ must take quite a beating. This is the fringe of my existence, this place where I begin to blend with my surroundings. Maybe it’s also why I keep changing my professional aspirations—my desire to be something more—or … yeah, it’s probably just me exploring something else.

I began teaching because I thought it would be a great way to connect with real people, and not just the social presences that haunt the internet. Then Corona hit. So, I scrambled to recover the path I’d been building, like everyone did, between bursts of anxiety and apathy. But, all we were left with was the facsimile of us, a picture on a screen with broken words intersecting across the internet, again—my students now all forced to stare at their crack dispensers, watching my talking head bobbing up and down, instead. Now the apathy is setting in, now the anxiety is spiking, and now I take a breath in order to recover myself from the inside out. I’ve got to get out!

With my left arm throbbing, having received my second shot, I walked into the woods to work it all out. I thought of my students, the ones onscreen and off. I thought of the school admin meeting with all the teachers as well. We were all isolated into tiny boxes with our personal environments in tow. Some sat in front of bookshelves, others with art on a wall. Some had fancy backgrounds showing their inner being, while others had a camera tilted away towards the shadows across the hall. I listened to their words, giving kavod to the leaders, and smiling as if we all didn’t know. I felt it too, you see, seeing each of their faces was something good—even though it was behind a screen. Seeing them all, even in some disjointed way, was a tiny light, an illusion filling my soul.

Blessings for a Healthy New Land soon...