I survive by the decadence of my imagination. The confines of the Earth zoom in, zoom in, zoom in. A precious gemstone becomes a symbol for transfixed eyes. The journey is an inner one. I claim this land. I fight for heaven's sake.
The men working in mines were metaphors for forgotten souls. The worker soaked in oil field sludge would later shower away this liquid wealth to reveal his wage appropriate skin. The rows of factory workers were tangible symbols of the uninspired anonymity that drowns so many. We breathed above water as we looked down at the photos. Our eyes fulfilled the still-frame purpose. These images do shape humanity.
When bombarded with published inspiration, I'm a broomstick of jealousy. My urge to create sears holes in my skin. This is a good thing. Contemplative. Then there is a calm. I wander down what used to be lonely aisles of a tomb and arrive at your presence, resting on the floor, turning large pages. The reality changes.
The silence denotes strength. The beauty is a revival. The sweat is the greatest reminder. We're moving. "Movement is medicine." I heard a man shout in a youtube video.
Literature will die by the hands of pop culture references.
I once used an instrument like a helicopter propellor to break up caked shit in a septic tank belonging to an upscale rehab facility in the hills above the sea. My plumbing partner and I laughed about it as the excrement flew into our goggles like bugs onto speeding windshields.
Which reminds me of the Arizona butterfly migration.
Bec and I drove through the desert while yellow butterflies created splash art against the car windshield. Maybe I was a murderer and her my accomplice, those delicate butterflies, victims, in a greater debate. And we were bandits taking out all in our path. I know that we laughed after each speeding bullet met it's demise. These light-hearted angels crossing deserts to find love, only to become obliterated by a greater indifference. Perhaps we were the butterflies.
Then.
In another life I surfed alone. I wandered along freshwater creeks. Stole watermelons from nearby farms. Ate the ripe fruits underneath shady oak trees. Juices dripping from my mouth down my chin. I slept until my limbs felt rested. I woke up and stretched in the warm afternoon. I continued wandering in circles of karma.
In another life I was an Indian brave. I recognized the Earth. I lived my life hypnotized by nature's song.
There was a time on a boat in the Marina. I got drunk, spun around, took some pictures, and tried again. There was a time alone, purgatory grew familiar, until I couldn't recognize the greater alternative. I fused with my lonely ghost. I caressed depths. I almost lost myself. Then I did lose myself. Like most things, it took sunshine to defrost spiritual isolation. It took gloved hands to tear away the piles of debris covering my heart. It took tears to reduce the banter to truth.
Sometimes.
I dream of childhood friends. I dream ashamed. I dream satisfied. I wake up and still dream some more, in my better times. Wade across dark pools of silent water and arrive.
Mourn the past, lose a minute, get it back right now.
