In the Gemini constellation tonight, Venus and Jupiter will be only one degree apart. Look for it after sunset, near the hip of the left Gemini twin.
On June 17th, 2 BC, the two planets were zero degrees apart, and were by far the brightest object in the sky with the exception of the moon.
Tonight, you will be one degree away from witnessing the Star of Bethlehem.
I’ve been consistently finding myself at a loss for words, trying to take emotions of the last weeks, and trying to sample them down to simple ascii characters.
There is something cathartic in this, but also a feeling that not all has been said, that not all can be communicated in this medium. That somehow, a small glance given over a coffee would be more than enough to convey everything that I’m feeling — but not this text, these words.
…
When I was young, I was caught unawares by a total lunar eclipse. I was at a park surrounded by trees, and when the moon began to fade, and change colour, I climbed to the top of the playstructure to see what was happening, how someone could simply be turning the moon off.
After it went out, I swear that there was no light at all, only the most perfect velvet black around me. Blind, I found my way down to the earth, and wandered into the forest, to try and see if the whole world had just shut down, if everything was dark forever.
And when I thought perhaps it was going to be dark forever, there appeared a crescent of light in the sky, a beautiful ice blue, and on every leaf and branch and surface that could cast a shadow, there was a miniature blue moon, dancing with the wind.
I cannot put into words how I felt then. I cannot put into words how I feel now.
…
More:
egyptian gods watching me behind glass, still and cold.
jessica kissing my cheek as I left, snowflakes everywhere.
the fog on the ottawa river reaching to a purple sky, tearing itself apart.
hearing leslie’s whispered secrets, unable to look away.
the outro of ‘2 rights make 1 wrong’, the first time.
stepping off a bus in edmonton after a three day ride, knowing amanda was there.
at christo’s mother’s cottage, making sacred space.
telling stories around the bonfire, every one of us friends.
knowing that i had come home.
It was simple, really, what I had to do.
The only way to get out of the game was to bring others into it. I lied with a smile as I described what would be happening, and coaxed her into it with saccharine sweetness. I had no choice, I kept reminding myself. It was either this, or a lifetime of pain beyond anything I had ever known.
And when she realized what was happening, I did not flinch at her screams.
…
Scars.
I looked upon my collapsed chest with something akin to sadness, although I cannot say exactly what it was. The rings of scars that circled my torso were made insignificant by the bloodless gouges under my nipples.
This was only the beginning, I reminded myself. I had my whole life ahead of me.
I have wasted countless words trying to describe something that I know cannot be captured in text.
Listen:
When I saw these statues, thousands of years old, Anubis and Sehkmet and Ra and Bastet and Horus and Set and Osiris and Thoth — These small figures carved into crumbled stone, polished marbles and golds worshipped by an empire, I knew I was in the presence of something sacred, something holy.
Against the glass, motionless.
I suppose that the buzzing in my head was just looking for a place to escape. It reminds me of a bird, caught between two glass doors, destroying itself in a terrified bid for freedom. It found it, last night, somewhere between the sober, frank discussions and the floods of self-doubt and fear.
At first I thought it had gotten into the walls, and I listened for it, a glass pressed up against my ear. It wasn’t there, though — but the more I listened, the more I knew it was nearby, somewhere close.
I think it’s in my clothes, now. I can feel it on me if I stay very still, something like a skin.
I try and take the feelings away by absorbing myself in the mundane: cooking, cleaning, going for a walk, having a cigarette; but this only leaves me feeling hollow.
I fear to indulge myself in this, I fear to try and find any richness or beauty in it, where I would’ve abandoned myself when I was younger and wiser. Perhaps it is that I fear not living up to my own standards, or that I don’t think I can reach the stars anymore. I don’t think I can do what I need to, what is both necessary and appropriate.
I think it provokes something close to ‘rage’ in me, however little I understand of that feeling. I have to stop myself, and try and deal with the world for just a second just another second until it stops and calms and stops and stops and just fucking shuts up and
Then I am myself again.
…
There is a poem by Dennis Lee called Deeper. A quote would not be inappropriate:
Often at night, sometimes
out in the snow or going into the music, the hunch says,
“Deeper.”
I don’t know what it means.
Just, “Push it. Go further. Go deeper.”
I thought that this poem represented what I’ve been feeling, and although the poem still speaks to me in some ways, it isn’t what I thought it was. This is not a hunch I feel I should follow; it is a drive, something as primal as sex and somehow more complex, more jaded.
I could exhaust all the words I have ever known trying to capture its essence, to trap it in metaphor. The notion itself is so inadequate as to be laughable.
But still, I find myself typing.
…
I wonder if those around me have the patience or capacity to tolerate me, if I withdraw and soul search. If I settle into meditation, speaking only koans, or begin to act with excess, would they understand? Would they think that this was a choice I had; to feel, to think, to be forced to act on this?
Perhaps they would assume that I am choosing to exercise what I consider to be ‘freedoms’, when in fact I am finding myself with none. When I find myself forced into a path of action, without recourse.
Perhaps a worse fate would be to find myself in the thick of melodramatic prose.
…
Still, I am urged deeper, against all logic or emotion.
Beyond choice, desire, or rationale, it is my fear that if I do not go, I will lose myself in the effort of keeping my head above the water, and that would be the greater loss.
It is simply a question of whether I choose to prepare for it, and take a breath before diving, or find water tearing the air from my lungs.
restraint.org is a loose collection of writing, links, ravings, photos, news, fiction, and bad poetry by Jairus Khan. This website has been here (off and on) for ten years or so, and was around in various other forms for three or four years before that.
I spend most of my off-hours working (in Ottawa, Canada) to promote underground music, arts, and media, and trying to keep independent music from being smothered by the hopeless anachronism known as ‘the industry’. I DJ and promote concerts/festivals regularly, make occasional beep-beep noises in an industrial-metal band, and recently released a CC-licensed debut album for my own industrial-slash-experimental-electronic project, Ad·ver·sary.
When I’m not working with, promoting, listening to, or writing music, I design very angry websites, flyers, book jackets, and the sort for various arts projects. I supplement my music/design income (roughly enough to buy a pocketful of buttons a month) by developing counter-hacking courses and moonlighting as a web coordinator for the man.
I also bake very tasty cookies.
