William Blake: Angel of the Revelation, ca. 1803–5
"I'm continuously moved to reflect just how unlike expectations Revelations always seem."

I seem to be living through a time where another shoe's always just waiting to drop, plots infinitely thickening, where every blessed thing I think I understand today might just be turned on its head tomorrow. I cannot honesty testify that my experience was ever different from this before, for I remember, like you remember, strings of surprising Revelations accompanying me from my earliest days, but it seems, reflecting, that the velocity just might have been steadily, subtly increasing over time, combining to produce a now dizzying result. Every damned thing seems swathed in speculation, with little probability that I'll readily recognize the upcoming outcome, which seems very likely to spawn just another interim and not any final resolution. We say that things are "up in the air," but this air seems thin and smoky, not necessarily fresh or health-giving, but sometimes more bordering upon the absolutely smothering. It probably doesn't help that we're living with a presidency produced like one of those shoddy "reality" television series, where each commercial break (and there suddenly seems to be endlessly infinite breaks for commercials) follows a fresh take on Keep-Away, almost revealing, but then, once again reporting that we'll just have to wait. They promise a brief break, but each invariably takes longer than any average attention span. I've lost focus by the time the program resumes, and the promised revelation usually turns out to be another come-on, prolonging what becomes deeply dissatisfying enough to leave me wondering after the higher purpose of my existence; hardly satisfying entertainment. I've been losing my desire to even turn on the damned television or read the Times to discover the latest "Revelations.".

The relationship between Revelations and resolutions seems disrupted right now, and this situation seems to insist upon me adopting some different expectations. Fireworks from a gender reveal party last week sparked a Southern California wildfire, in perfect allegory for our times. Try to make a big fuss about something—anything, really—and the announcement will very likely find itself upstaged by some unanticipated externality. Pratfalls upstage every script's content and each otherwise skillful performance. Fame might still visit each for the requisite fifteen minutes, but will more likely focus upon some unintended oversight rather than upon any more deliberate or well-practiced mastery. People most often become famous for already being famous now, household names rooted in some shameful incident. "Oh, you're the guy who set fire to the county when just trying to announce 'It's a girl!'? It's almost enough to throw me into permanent stealth mode, but I'm still out here every morning, feeding my audience if not necessarily my ego anymore.

I came out last week, not with some surprisingly dangerous reveal stunt, but in a very-likely buried lede, as has always been my practice. (I bury my ledes. That's no Revelation!) The Muse long-ago learned that if she wants to know what's going on with me, she'll have to wait after asking, not wait until the traditional Hell freezes over, but probably until Hell starts to get a little slushy along the edges. I'm not trying to hide what's up with me, but my initial conclusions always seem so tentative, and further Revelations bubble up once I start considering my response. Then I enter a potentially infinite loop. I seem most aware then of what I don't seem to quite yet know, and attempting to come to know only further encourages further exploration. Later—much later—I might return with a reply, painfully aware that I've lost the moment and my response very likely seems out of context by then. Over the past couple of weeks, I've come to recognize that I'd been living as a writer for the longest time without very often feeling as though I was living in very good standing. I'd been practicing, so practiced at preparing for so long that I might have missed that significant transition from becoming into become. This reveal has been one of those real Revelations to me, though it seems to have qualified as no news to anybody else, just like most every other kind of coming out.

The lifestyle seems to suit me. I scrupulously maintain my completely fictional made-up schedule, reading many times more than I ever scribble. I clear my palate with other authors' words, whether audio or visual, and I rush to my keyboard every pre-dawn to see what new I might spew. You, dear reader, simply stand downwind to receive my fresh daily Revelations. They're Revelations to me, too. I am learning anew every morning, learning much more than ever remembering, for after an uncertain point, learning breaks its earlier close association with conscious retention. I rarely remember what I've written, and am learning to slow down on Friday mornings to review whatever footprints I've left behind me. As if I were baking bread each morning, there could not possibly be any revisiting freshness later. Each little essay was crafted for a specific day in time, and that time's gone by the time I stand back to take stock of any progress. There is never any progress evident, for writing's a Sisyphean sort of undertaking. It's work entirely composed of moments disconnected from hours, days, weeks, months, or years. It's either here or gone with never any middle ground. I'm continuously moved to reflect just how unlike expectations Revelations always seem.

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My coming out week started with me deeply appreciating my most recent readers, who perhaps unintentionally left me discovering my writer within, in Readering, the most popular piece of the period.

Fitting to my emerging Revelations, I next reflected upon the necessity of mustering some humility in Humbility.

I began my more explicit reveal in LivingAllegorically, where it seemed that I'd somehow finally found a way to compellingly speak about my manner of living, inspiring myself.

I next recognized, perhaps to reassure myself, the happy accidents which have always seemed to animate my life's work in Synchroenicheatea.

My late summer suspended itself for a few days just as the exhausted dog days were waning in SolstusInterruptus.

Then I found myself disgusted with a familiar feature of every election season, where I argued that we might more usefully focus upon some things more significant and telling than Issues when deciding.

Finally, I found myself channeling those whom this season's wildfires have been displacing in Burning. Several readers reported weeping while reading this one, and I confess that I was wiping away tears all the time I was transcribing it. I cannot claim to have written this one, for I served as nothing more or less than a channel for it to get over here on this side of experience. Channeling this felt like writing at its very best. Once out, I guess, the collective subconscious can get me like this.

I thank each and every one of you blessed readers for transforming me into who I'd long aspired to become. I feel as though I've just begun, still uncertain about what this latest revelation might eventually become, certain only that another shoe's certain to drop. I'm almost done dressing up my Cluelessness manuscript. I expect to be shipping it out for possible publication shortly. Stay tuned.

©2020 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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