I picked up my own fractured innocence and splattered it all over the walls like the fecal matter of so many madly inspired invalids. In my actions, only the perfect grace of the deer looking backwards, a drawings whose lines erred toward a dimension of melting french cheese imitation. No longer a sense of purity to be salvaged ad infinitum, a sense of rightnsss falling away in the naturally fragrant earth of spring time newly rising. Disintegrating, disintegrating, barely finding the conceptual framework to fit it all in, art, an artist, starving and without hope, like a shaman peicing a world together from old sticks and thrown away boogie boards. I dug rimbaud but in more of a never read him but wanted to fashion. Walks with a bamboo stick in hand, the streets alive with a pulse I tried to muffle but failed. Ah the seismic implications. I man, a woman, softest in the darkest hues of my own mind where this distinction first arose, I just find it funny now, looking back. My father who had tried to write but never did anything otherly ordinary with his life that he would share, and they would try to hold me back from this edge that I barely wanted to define. Every one could plainly see it was just a rouse, a simple ploy maybe at best a last attempt to get the blood flowing and lust for life back into my idle hands but they stayed idle and I stayed in the woods near the highways and that was all that mattered.
I got up and left. Down a long hallway and trail by the cool sun going down times and finding a balance beam, but who cares? Leaving many books scattered through unknowing passageways and in plants. I could talk to the spirits and they told me to hold on, being humble, for uncertainty grew in the ones without questions or consequences. And a curse to everyone born after this day, so that they won't be able to cause so much confusion and would know they were cursed in this endless orgasmic life of machinery and old apple peels and god and women looking into windows with fake glasses. On the subway someone began to laugh uncomfortably and blow his own cover, twenty two pairs of eyes tried to stay averted and most failed but still the lights blew by. Later, just another smoke break on the concrete, green of nature creeping in from all sides in that way we call as therapy. But its just a hollow knocking, like thin metal backyard doors with no backyards to them. That was the stream that came from Jo so long ago. Who would give an old gypsy like that the proper time of day? So he always was late and early and still refuted time and lived on a cloud like a weatherman with a conviction unknown among weathermen. He imagined they all wanted to finger his scars and let them show when he yawned and stretched his arms upwards. Without hesitation, we began to talk about what we really wanted.
To travel, to see other people on their own terms.
To get drunk, to be able to leave it all behind over and over again and go nowhere.
Jesus and many institutions came flooding through the gates and it came over us that it may be the end after all. I realized I had been wrong all along, desperately sewing my own fate from the start in the basest of impulses, but how was I to know? There were no directions giving, no clue.
Was this all simply under that broad notion of policy? The rearrangement of sticks in the tall grass made way for completely useless meanderings, like a cow that wanders far. The poems I wrote, they never reached their intended ears, or maybe they did, perhaps it was the futility that made me feel better.
Don't stop gorging yourself in your own tears, even for a second rain falls into rivers, and mud puddles swell up. What make you whistle along and forget the truth? I think its boredom and time, which got the ball rolling on the words and rambling that eventually led me out of the school and into the real world where real things happen. Little did I know at that time that the real really was just a coded term. Like the zen people of the past I became confused and disgruntled, even our once joyous conversations had taken a turn for the worst. Apt for bursts of mumbojumbo and hedonistic self kindness.
"Excuse me,"
The bathroom loomed before me. I entered and sat down, I stopped trying to be whoever it was in there that had possessed me. There was no shame and I didn't know how long it was until I got up, washed my hands and emerged, completely refreshed.
Nothing more to say this time, just the trees rustling in the wind. Its warmer now, and life is beautiful. The old birch polyphores on the sides of all the trees began to gain a strange allure, word was they could be used as tinder and we around town were itching for a bonfire. Though the parties of old and going in and out of the car were all good, like some oldie singing road trips that washed away all those misfortunes and such. In my gut, I knew it was the place to be but didn't stay long because I had nothing to say, I was stoned and swaying in the wind. While they invoked Dionysus or something. In the dips that met the forests below there was a pot I found, but really I was searching for my skirt. I took it off yesterday and it disappeared from plain sight. I wondered what was going on back at the rager. My hands empty of any true fulfillment, but maybe it was some kind of reason to it all, I tried to regain myself. The red jacket motorcycle mystic passed me many times and I smiled. Who was he? A perfect juxtaposition. The kind of jazz you could get down to.
Though all the old spots I'd gone to seemed to be covered in another's tracks now, at least they had the courtesy and sense of timing to leave only an imprint and a sense of good vibrations. No vibration, the karma.. and whatnot. What brings two to meet, mere chance or just that I'm lost with nothing to say. So while we sat and talked like rastas leaving babylon, Celeste sat off and beamed at everything. She beamed, and Rick laughed, and no one said much else, and I knew I found my true home.
The next day I woke up slowly, dreams of the adventure running through my head. Sad again to look down upon myself and see a man, beneath all the time, I felt I was the one cursed in a way, living this strange lie that no on could question, and no one told. Even questioning that inner feeling in me, because maybe it is just a fantasy and I'm no woman but just an actor on a strange tangent about feminism and life and space, spiritual dimensions and seeking wholeness opening myself to higher levels of honesty and freedom. Well of course, none of it all matters but what do I not approach in that way. As an existentialist I had to bow out for once and was shocked there. Here something overriding I felt as wrong and taking comfort in such blatant materialism and stereotypes. I got lost trying to justify it all but who really cares. In the end if theres a will, theres a way and theres a strange knowing that it will all turn out right in the end no matter who says what, who takes what path because we all support eachother in some way and whatnot. And who can explain their reasons really? Certainly not Freud and his ineffable cocain sex-ism. Much like the smoking of weed, or taking psychedelic, entheological journeys in the twilight is for some folks. Logic fails on all accounts. But it is something in me thats real, of that I'm sure. But what can do but say it and try take in three color skies, horizon, full moons fading. out.
But it was morning and I wasn't too hungry, skipped meals, drank some tea and walked out the door. The fish tanks, the fish tanks, you ripple so wild. When she drops in her pellets all the bubbles stir up and its a frenzy. A moment of suicidal contemplation. But I'm not at all serious. Then theres leaves rustling under my feet and its gone. Climbing.
