The dream started fine. I was on a vacation by the ocean. But then this rocket, intended for some Elon Musk mission, exploded over the sky somewhere North. Then, this big passenger plane landed on a deserted road right near me and I could see inside and I could see terrorists taking over the plane. Nobody else was around. I knew I had to try to stop it from taking off. I was looking for things I could throw into the jet engine. Then I woke up. On the couch. Slept too long. But I was still tired. And it was Sunday. I wanted to write. But how can I write in such a scary world, where things explode, and the things that don't are stolen? I'm getting old. The things I used to care about, I don't anymore. I feel more comfortable in my own skin, now, even as it ages, and itches. Time may heal, but time also wounds.
It’s dull and boring, but it’s homeostatic. It’s in the cellar. It’s in the attic. Wishing will never make it better. "Want" is the first rain drop of coming destruction. It is the "Indian Summer" of our impending doom. It is a "Garbage-Truck Holiday" with overflowing trash-bins in our room. Frugality is the first step towards freedom. Frugality is a type of inverted wealth. Frugality is sweet fragrance to the Lord’s disciples; the specter of fear to greedy corporations. Frugality is the death bullet to stockholders and their hillside-mansion dreams. It is the antidote to the disease of world domination schemes. It is a wrecking ball rolling through the halls of crystal statues; sculptures of glass crash in its path.
The sweetness dissipates. There are druids in the train station, witches in the bus depot. There is enchantment luring away the gatekeepers of the sacred seminaries of our most sacred religion. There are wind tunnels with words that trap the clever minded and the movie-maker wannabes. (Nobody is guarding the streets. Nobody is watching the wisdom children.) With a sweep of a hand, the conductor shifts the tone. With the nod of his head, the admiral orders the troops. With the squint of her eye, the romance addict puffs up the narcissistic scholar, just to deflate him with her cold steel lance. The sweetness dissipates. The plates are on fire and there is no food in your pantry. And now the sweetness is gone, the tone has shifted, the troops go marching by.
I never thought I would be where I am: on the shores under the night sky with nothing on my mind. I never thought I’d have time to ponder things like “love” and “mercy.” I guess I’ve always been pre-occupied with the grains of sand hurling and tumbling down the hourglass. And I want to be a slow-motion sand grain (the very last one to slide through that narrow passage from what was above to what is below). And when I pounce on the pile, from my inevitable and reverent fall, the celebration will begin and all my lovers and all my companions and all my mentors and all my antagonists converge at a shore, under the sky, by the bonfire, and then begins real fellowship. Soon. I never thought I’d be here, pondering these simple things.
fires burn throughout the parallel dimensions of our lives. what is a person other than a temporary contraction of matter, that waddles through the burning world trying to become something transcendent? it's metaphysical jazz and nobody knows how it will go. we try not to think about it, but we poked by a divide, a wide wide variety of possibilities. years... we might get 30 more, we might get 5. we start epic projects without knowing if we will have anywhere near the time necessary to complete them. we push the boulder and manage the crop. we plan out things, schedule our time. the world is on fire while we scamper to transcend. "we're running out of time!" metaphysical jazz bullies us, and we've no choice but to dance.
I’m not trying to be circular, I’m trying to learn. We’ve all wandered through these realms of academia, and we've all bounced off these pillars of skepticism. We’ve seen 'proofs' destroy 'doubts,' then seen objections rise from the ashes to deconstruct those very same proofs. And all we want is to be loved, and to maybe have one good laugh every day. To eat something sweet. To see something grand. But before our epistemic eyes, hooligans rise from their oppression-pits to sour our sweets and darken our grand thing that we’re trying to view. And they are the ones who get the good laugh. And it is just really unfair. So we retreat to our books. We retreat to our academic caverns. We challenge smaller foes and eat subtler foods. We know we can’t get what we want. We mope, briefly, then we are on our way again. Back on the trail. Back down the path.
The snow flakes fell like pom-poms. The people in the streets were cheering. The snowflakes covered the sidewalks like perpetual redemption, smoting every stain with specks of pure whiteness. The sinners in the streets were cheering. But you know those snowflakes. The snowflakes kept their distance from each other, as if they were surrounded by little rebellion bubbles, encapsulating every idiosyncratic ice sculpture that fluttered to the earth’s floor. And when they landed softly on the ground, the rebellion bubbles dissipated back into the heavens, or sank deeply into the earth. And where the snowflakes landed, that ‘s where they landed. The snowflake that landed on Lincoln street will never find itself on Clinton avenue. It is here now and that is the way it will have to be.
Why is everyone so afraid of blame? We avoid blame, and clammer for credit. We take the blame, and give the credit. We depricate and inflate. We're little balloon people. One day we're slipping through the grate, the next day we can't fit through the door. Depression is a nemesis, it's not a biochemical flaw. It's garbage you forgot to take out. It's a dentist appointment when you haven't seen a dentist in a decade. If we take the blame, eventually we can take the credit. If we credit the blame we'll give the credit. Fuck. That makes no sense. It's confusing. But it's not my fault. I have Confusion. It's not my fault. Confusion is an illness. It's genetic. My parents were confused, too. Both of them. I give them credit, though. They didn't blame me for their confusion. They gave me credit for blaming the disease. But, now, that makes no sense, either.
I don't even know where to start. It's still morning and I am trying my damndest to get started. The stupid sun keeps moving without procrastination. Without distraction. It was here, now it's there. These silly people flood thru my ambiance. Public speakers... who needs them? Every preacher says "there's my ADHD acting up again." Punk, you don't even know what that means. You think it's a chemical imbalance rattling your brain? Please! Your the pawn of a cosmic spiritual game. Invisible beasts from a parallel dimension are pushing you around. They pushed you here, then they will push you there. I'm looking outside at a blue sky. There's not a cloud in sight. I'm going to sit here all day watching that damn sun. I'm going to study her like a goddam scientist, and uncover her secrets. I'm going to discern what makes her tick. Discover all her tricks. Then I'm really going to get this list of projects done!
I'm holding out my hand for apocalypse drippings. I'm reeling in eucalyptus aromas. I'm wandering through perpetual summer, and the streets are overpopulated with loose thinking burnouts, skinny and unwashed. Pseudo-zombies holding out their hands for fragments. Fatigued souls with shitty parents and downward mentors. Unhappy laughers, overdosing on summer. Shallow lovers holding out their hands in the darkness of sunshine, asking me for change. Me. A drifter from the north; a vagabond blowing through the overcrowded streets; a child of God, abundant in winter, overflowing with snow and cold, holding out my hands for a little extra summer.
The fashion director gives the nod and we broach the catwalk. We step out under the lights. Life is a moral fashion show, and God is watching us under the hot, bright lights. And the crowds raise an eyebrow and make notes as we strike virtuous poses and swing around in virtuous motions. Things happen. We stumble. Curtain rods fall on our heads. But we keep walking. Step here, step there. Trying not to mimic what the other models are doing. Trying to do it how we want to do it. But we all have 2 legs and a desire for dark chocolate. We all vomit and starve ourselves before the show. We nod to one another, conscientious of what we are supposed to be conscientious of. We're well informed, misinformed, then re-informed of everything we were misinformed of. We don't know what's true. We puke. We change suits and walk back out, with practiced strides, immune to the lights. All we see are Pharisees. Where is the fashion director? Where is the judge of this show?
I’ve been too human for my own good.
With a tendency to squander and destroy.
I was going “that way,” Now it’s “this way or die.”
Oh, this thing in my eye? That’s a railroad tie.
I’ve been trying to get it out.
(I haven’t slept well in months).
It doesn’t matter where the elevator takes us.
It doesn’t matter if the election is rigged.
(Money is only valuable because of guns.
Weapons sustain the value of money.
Export - Import Extrovert - Introvert
It’s not an astrological situation of any kind.
It’s organized violence - the threat of pain.
“What is this worth! Maggot!”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Please!”
“We didn’t hear you! What is this worth!”
“A dollar! Oh God, a dollar! Please, that is worth a dollar!”)
It was the tail end of a global recession and I was overeating. It was at the bottom of hitting bottom and I was having trouble sleeping. The weather sucked worse that TV sitcoms and I was sick of the gray and the rain. I see people crossing paths and I question their love for each other. I see couples dwelling in their houses and I wonder how their love dynamics work. It was the beginning of the recovery and I was increasing my water intake. I was crossing things off of my to-do list and thinking about my future. It was the start of something special and strangers were walking around me unbuttoning their coats. There was a star ascending the stairs, and I was there staring at the stars.
Marge is in her hammock sipping tea, slowly drifting into sleep. Fe'tid the spider is slowly descending to the street. G-pa the Raccoon is shuffling through the alley, sniffing for some meat. He’s been shot with pellets, clipped by a Chevy Malibu, and struck by lightning, so don’t even begin to bitch and complain about the toils of your daily burden. Marge is sound asleep now, unaware of the buzzing bees around the garden post. She is lightly snoring, dreaming about being on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean. She has no paddles and is worried about how she is going to get her mortgage paid if nobody finds her. In her dream she has no imperfections. Her skin is silky smooth, like corporate fabric. She awakens to the sound of children laughing.
Walking through the park with criminals in our midst. Strolling along the path with our memories still intact. I am a post-liberal scholar, trying on different thoughts. There are liars in my midst. I have all this knowledge but with nothing to dump it on. My power-tools are well designed but I have nothing to contort. My heart is broke. There are lovers in my midst. I rest my legs on a bench. My shoulders are tired from building walls. I’m looking for a power-outlet but all I find are covered receptacles. There are no electricians in my midst. There are people passing to and fro. I wave at a friendly dog. My legs feel better so I resume my walk. I merge into the pathway traffic and disappear among the crowds. I am somewhere in my midst.