diary i — constant ephemera

from willa beale

In the evening, the sweet air reeks of wet soil and creeping thyme. I am here, too, and I have no idea what I smell like. Others have told me I am pleasant, like a good human, but I have no way of knowing this scent unless it is the same I have scented on other good humans I know. What I love is the smell of lavender and basil and some vanilla, I love peaches and bananas and coriander, and I love the sea in all its fetid glories. There are no good and bad smells, really, only good and bad minds attached to mediocre noses. What a shame we cannot smell the greatest wretchedness and wonder as some of our fellow species can. I wish I were a dog sometimes, to know a whole other realm through my nostrils. Too, I wish I could see all the colours that fade and not just what my human eyes already struggle to give vibrancy. Such is the nature of our poor forms: all the glory of our senses lodged within our fragile skulls. To know what is not known is not known: such a gift would do us well. But this evening the air reeks of wet soil and creeping thyme and cloud cover and thunder. And isn’t that a blessing enough? I can smell the weather of my beautiful Earth, my sweet Gaia. I can smell the ephemera as it weaves and wiles through our mutual existence. Earlier, I was considering Will and their coexistence. I want to give them beautiful things, like a crow—I am in love with them like a small violent animal that wanders and returns always to the safety of them with dead little things in my mouth: here, on your doorstep: a violent selfish little poem—isn’t it beautiful? I don’t know, but I enjoy giving my dead little things to them. I enjoy letting them into the quiet ephemera of my being. When I write about nature or love or sex or mercy, I want always to point to my lines and say: There you are, I put you there because I want you to be seen—I want you to be more than the scary illusion of waking. Will is so civil to us but a hurricane privately. I could never write such that I quell that tempest but when I give them a gentle little erotic poem I hope they find a touch of relief in the polite onslaught of my words. Sometimes I wonder about myself, too. Is there a storm here? I cannot tell: I do my thing and then I let it go. There is no space between what I am doing and what I am doing next: they are the same moment. Why worry about tomorrow when today is so cruel and I feel such an honour in facing that cruelty today? Tomorrow’s cruelties are nothing to me: they do not exist. This is my Main Quest: Combat the Cruelty of Today. My Side Quest (presently) is: Learn What Makes Will Smile. If there is some word or phrase that excites them more than the rest, if there is some kindness that can combat the cruelty of their day, is that not a fun thing to express, too? So many artists have told me that expression is contained to the self but I say No! there is far greater art to be found in the exegesis of others, not like a muse but like a lover. If I can find in Will the negative capability to purify my expression can Will and I not find together the negative capability to purify the Earth? That’s simple enough to want, I suppose, for someone of my sensibility. I have limited time on this Earth and so I ought to give it the best effort I can muster. What is the point of living if you’re doing it just for yourself? It is my beloveds that bring me to meaning and virtue; ought I not to bring meaning and virtue to all beloved things? To say: You are loved because I exist? Isn’t that a bit of Love, after all—to see in all beloved things a bit of one’s virtue and dissidence? Notions like this bring me closer to the present and relieve me of tomorrow’s quandaries. It is a privilege for me to speak this way, too, I know. I have the fortune of having someone in whom all my love is known and contained. When I am alone, I can fold back into them and let them carry me. When I am broken, I can spread all my pieces before them and say, “look at this nonsense,” and I know they will say to me: “You are so beautiful, Willa,” and I know I am so terribly fortunate to have a lover like that. I exist vicariously, for better or worse. I am constant and ever-ending, like scent. I have no muses, but I am mused by all living things. What a blessed way to be.

Amen.