i see an eyelash floating in my cereal milk, it used to belong to me, seconds before. we keep losing these things we've grown, produced by our very being. they just happen to fall off.
"life becomes more and more about what we've lost." i told a curly-haired girl at a bar some lost months ago. she kept calling and calling.
you wanna borrow some passion?
i lived alone, walked in the middle of the night from my santa monica canyon street to an ocean avenue filled with hundreds of thousands of people and a few underwhelming art installations. years after, it was me and my girl and some bicycles from venice and after that i was alone again, wondering about a glow.
i meant to say nostalgia, prior to passion, but wait, something happens:
nostalgia untethers to curiosity.
there have been all these flighty people defeating me time and time again through heart-wrenching feeling or icy indifference with bands and locales and experiences and, but, i set my stubborn roots in this magical desert, buzzards flying overhead, my seeds spread by santa ana winds and subtle seasons which natives like us know how to detect, and so we prosper, the way desert creatures know how, burrowing, meditating, climbing to some altitude in early chilled mornings before the stampedes wake and, there, we nurture spirit and thrive in our own way.
i wasn't bred for the path of least resistance, as docile as my pursuits appear on surface, surface, you can have surface. i'm somewhere dark, ensnared in monster tentacle, knife on belt, tearing away invigorated by some struggle or another.
i know that i've created all of these predicaments. it's what we do when nature fails to blow hurricanes our way. but there is purpose, it's a worldly laboratory and we are all mad scientists conducting experiments for our own opportunity at something more, physical, it happens in the physical, then manifests, if true, in the spiritual, near-infinite minuscule experiments creating something like, god, or ultimate creation.
this artistic soldiering, has greatness, even if it's a single hand on a massive push, on an object too large to comprehend outside of vision.
the reader is both repelled and attracted to the indulgence. something else exists is all i'm saying and i can locate a torn shred of a map to it's location on this strangely arranged keyboard.
so grab your passion now, coddle, cuddle, let it float away like the butterfly and give chase, ignore, paint, sculpt, dream about all those turbulent images and non-sensical patterns you've been beginning to suspect for some time now.
