rain drops, blinds shut, i opened my eyes inspired by you shining before the day. bright, i read some of your writing, a few expressions, fireworks, i know, so here i am, still dreaming, answering the question you were going to ask me in person. where it comes from?
there's that analogy about putting a fishing line into a river. sometimes like a stream, ocean, tar pit. sometimes immerse the entire self and raft as bait, swim like fish, somewhere primordial. wreckage from a sunken ship, a swarm of birds, confusion helping, flapping wings, invigorating the search. i like getting held under by waves if i've forged my body strong enough. but i'd be an asshole, or defensive, scared, to say that it's a choice. there've been fires and flames, wounds that never return the skin of life to it's regularly scheduled program. and there's nothing glorious about those painful moments that shred any sense of control, shown ugly, drafted into wars and aches to which there was no boot camp. they just happen and we do our best and they feed something, wounds always seem to be feeding something. and we try to paint something else beautiful, redemptive, with the blood, bravely. but all that muck, that's only a sliver, is the truth. freud once told me he'd never felt the oceanic moment and i laughed at his cold tone and admired his detachment, like i would a monk's, from afar, glad to be shown someone new and different. but my heart's beaten and thrived in rhythm, in rhythm, the kind you love entirely alone, then sometimes the kind that makes you want to rush to the highest cliff in town, yell from the top of your lungs, hug your mother, kiss the ground, sacrifice everything you have in this form and catapult massively into the ocean, splashing something powerful and intricate enough that the whole world gazes upon this creation for a simple moment and smiles inside and out. There's joy, pain, chaos, banana cream pie and somewhere else, there's always somewhere else and here. and if i'd seen that homeless guy chasing god down the street, i would've tackled him down to his knees or, with your help, forced him into buddha's lotus position and blindfolded, gagged, earplugged him until he let the pain subside and shut up to the magic. there's always the magic, which we revere and emulate in circulation and it makes it simple, humble. and then we begin, listen, express, listen, revere, listen, struggle, listen, smile, listen, care, listen and play.
i'll tell you the rest in person.
