there is an algorithm for understanding defeat. not the bottom of a bottle or another pair of legs around your waist, thrown against the wall in that movie sex act. the white cloud of surrender requires hurting first, like you wouldn't believe. thank god we forget how much it really does ravage us, or we wouldn't do it once more.
examining each threadbare circumstance until we are singular again. reclaiming a center of universe. wrangling the mind back toward, right here.
the bar in silverlake, dancing uncomfortably wrong in our booth, the two of us making seductive jokes in elmer fudd voice. a bottle of champagne on grass, sun, people, guitar, alive. this is where you stop.
"he was still too young to know that the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice, we manage to endure the burden of the past." -marquez
i can get a little deeper now without it ruining me. it's strange how the same things that haunt us end up becoming our solace. first you have to stare at em directly, then look from every humbled angle, disentangle, unwrap and breathe. sometimes it's like those snakes in a can, popping out, scaring, alarming the lower mind, it'll be all right.
walking, running, getting sick, sweating it away, the body does most of the work if we treat it with love, creating, dash a bunch of old charcoal crisscross along a page and build something new again.
i set words to stone, a caveman on a silver lit cave wall, deep within the marrow of these collective bones and temporal flesh there exists some kind of primordial magic moving in streams, magnet with collective unconscious and ancestral sacrifice.
and one day, out of the ashes or exquisite bliss, i will create something astoundingly beautiful.
