Omichronica

Omicron ~ the fifteenth letter of the Greek alphabet

transliterated as 'o', Astronomy, the fifteenth star

in a constellation. Noun: "Omicron Piscium"

i

When I was in my twenties,

hopelessly impressionable,

to be worth your salt

required a breakdown.

Fitzgerald had one.

So did Zelda.

They called it cracking up.

Plath was famous for hers.

Many artists courted theirs.

The bottom line being

if you hadn’t tested

the limits of your urges

and emotions

how serious could 

you be taken? 

A breakdown brought

you down to earth

hard and fast and messy; 

proof of having scaled 

the heights,

loving too hard,

letting sex go awry,

relentless self-observation,

only then to have

one’s sensitivities

come surprisingly to

more sober conclusions.

One knew after 

several suicide attempts

(the benefit of which

cracked you open

like an archetypal,

if non-marble egg), 

countless confessionary 

conversations with tentative

listeners, that there are

in fact no prerequisites

for living a happy life,

that nothing outside

oneself is at all required,

that wealth’s more likely

to create anxiety than joy,

that clinging onto things

cripples the constitution,

that life itself unfurls

like a virus mutating

by way of some divine order 

merely in hopes of surviving

it’s own voraciousness.

I had to ask myself:

How had I kept

my capacity for joy

after so much

alteration?

ii

Yesterday I met 

a joyless man

who knew himself well,

a well-thought out man

who wore a laundry list

of neuroses, each with

a very definitive title.

Right up front

in a matter of minutes

I was informed of his

sex addiction, clinical

depression, OCD,

bipolar disorder, and

very personal journey

of self discovery

(or was it recovery?).

I was taken aback, 

if not dumbfounded 

by the over-sharing 

of such vivid self-prognosis.

In that space and time

“knowing thyself” 

seemed more addiction 

than edict.

I suddenly knew that

the aspect of seeing oneself

in the mirror of another

always takes us aback. 

And yet,

there was a significant

difference between myself

and this imposing reflection.

The man before me

radiated not the slightest

joy de vivre.

His experiences

had seemingly drained him

of any trace or

intimation of

sweetness and light.

It was as though 

he’d lost his sense

of taste and smell

for what was 

before his very

nose and eyes.

He was for all

intents and purposes

all in his head.

It made me think…

but with my heart

if that’s possible,

can we ever see

ourselves rightly?

Or regard ourselves

as subjects if we are

unable to watch ourselves

watching without judging

(hardly a substitute for insight)

in so harsh a light.

All I know is that

there is a rapturous sorrow

that has filled my emptiness

as easily as a child fills in

the picture of an ocean

with a cerulean crayon;

the color forever

taking me

to itself.

If prayer is the purest way

the heart makes itself heard,

then creativity is a clarion fountain

inviting others to drink

whereby we may

water the world.

One needn’t travel anywhere

in order to restore relish

for what we feel we’ve lost.

Returning anywhere is done 

solely within the edges 

of our soul

(which is borderless). 

That the sight of falling snow

can return me to my youth;

its scent, a panacea,

its sound, the voice of the moon.

Its feel, a gorgeous desolation.

If what makes something holy

rests with the beholder,

then I will behold 

everything with an open heart

as we all now

find ourselves in

this state of

Omichronica. 

12/22/21