on worship

My worship is not worship, it is immersion and opening.

It is built of bones and dirt and riffs.
Talk.
Sometimes I feel a sharp pain on my left side and think I have a burning stone inside of me.
I might pour a beer or light a candle or write words.
Or all three. Or none of these.
Is there nothing more futile than writing words, given that language is the crudest of tools?
I lament not understanding the deepest level of physics.
I read about the Oort Cloud and the ultimate heat death of the universe and my stomach tingles even though I know I'm reading a dumbed-down version of these things as I'm not smart enough to understand.
Why was I not born with the brain to comprehend science?
Stars are born and stars die and I cannot explain how this happens even though there is an underlying process.
I don't want it to remain abstract.
Goddamn this need to create and have that creation mean something.
Goddamn this love of the unknown.
(Unknown to humanity or unknown to me?)
I suppose I would be boring were these contradictions resolved. I am boring anyway.
More riffs, more riffs, more riffs.
I saw a band and they were nothing special until the sound coalesced into an overwhelming universe and then it was magic.
That. That is magic. You can explain it, easily enough. They played chords and drummed patterns and there was a certain level of amplification. But it was still magic.
It's ok to explain magic, it need not take the magic itself away.
Why not be in awe? Immersion in the act of creation and the products of that creation.
To be an atheist and write a horror tale that has meaning is a knot I'm unable to disentangle.
The black hole of summer and the twilight of winter.
Spring promises and spring takes away.
And autumn...
My beer glass is empty and I've not made dinner.
Another evening where I did not do enough.

-- 3/30/2014