i wrapped my mind around a tree, fell ona bent knee. thoughts illogical, disorganized, scattered within a quarter mile radius of me. i would have to grow the circumference somehow to find some leniency of space. there were harleys, semis, and el caminos blasting through the place. i got tickled by the pavement, sandblasted in the face. i finally had enough. i stood up proud and centered myself, and left my thoughts beneath me. i walked into the middle of this four lane highway crossing a fourteen county spread. all the cars and trucks agreed to stop for me and the gray rabbit, the brown frog, the yellow duck, and the unnamed holy one. when the engines all cut out, we came to understand. we are all in this thing, together.
when all seems lost i look for four walls, some light, a wooden floor, my kittens, a wooden desk, my machine which connects me to the universe. when all seems lost i eat a salad, read a book. i lie to myself that everything will be okay. i get outdoors and stare at the sky. i go to work and get sucked inside office politics. i cherish everyone, especially the ones i least like. when all seems lost, i talk to my friend whose a painter. or another writer. or someone who cannot sing the alphabet. i try not to think. maybe i pray. all may be lost. i write a book about it. all is lost. i don’t care. all is lost. i don’t care. nothing is lost.
Last night I watched a film took place 3 years before I was conceived in a city located a 3 hour drive from where I was born, and began crying and you comforted me. I recollect so much of my life as it were. I even see where I went astray. But mostly I feel homesick like how life can never be like it was, back then.
this morning they are hoping for some change standing outside the seven elevens the circle k’s the am pm’s, shifting and huddled and made it through the night. maybe a coffee and a biscuit if you can. a word or a sign or a forlorn face to get a couple quarters. sometimes a hard silence and barefoot says enough. a little kid who cares asks his mommy can we help that one over there? some small gratitude, hot liquid behind paper, warms the hands and face, expressions melt into a blank stare. worries momentarily at bay. eyes open to the day. find your hustle or your doomed.
this morning i awoke beside you and stretched and growled. you called me tiger and i showed you my claws. the sun was not up yet but we were. i took my meds and fed the cats. we went down the road to the am.pm. we discovered the coffee there is first rate. you got some chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, and i didn’t mind. i made a cadillac with half hot chocolate. we aren’t that young anymore, but we love to be kids together. maybe that’s the core of our apple?
I won’t allow my depression a millimeter, a fraction of a second, an incomplete thought, a syllable, a single note, a lapse of judgment, a crumb of cake, a seed, a drop of water, a feather to float itself out on… all my depression can have is a one way ticket to a polar ice cap, where it may freely melt itself out of existence.
a sunday morning begs me to create. i choose words. the creation of things may come less by tranquility than by chaos, equally informed by experience. the energy a song of words holds is generous and gives, if not selfless or attractive. we are naturally drawn to a sweet rhythm carried on a baseline. words have many meanings. our cultures are the context. I like most to let them free in the wilderness of a curious city
I would question the sun’s motives were he situated different, in closer proximity to the earth. If I got close enough for the interview, I would get all the answers I need. My pen would melt before I got a word down. Awakened by brilliant light, see me run toward the darkness at dawn.
You would be waiting for me at the plateau, I know, the last drop of water on the edge of our collective sanity machine.
I wanna ignore some thoughts in my head or top them off a boil and float the bastards away. Tired of telling myself sometimes I’m a loser, I’m no good, I cannot hold a candle to you. I wanna take them out back and twist them dry, but you cannot get water from a stone.
I wanna take the stone cold self antagonist inside me and shatter her through some wall length plate glass window and stand there and watch, and listen until every last fragment and shard falls to ground in a puzzle of unsolved life.
Then listen to my pretty head full of nothing and adorn her with flowers and songs and flashes of light. I will grab a broom and sweep up the pieces of my broken thought. And hang them on a wall.
A stamped imprint is an impression you have on the world. Once the ink dries, the thing upon which you (the idea of you) have been fastened, takes flight into the crosscurrents of daily life. These energy fields we run in are countless! Everything changes. You can become something else in an instant! Years later we will all understand. Only then may they know, by what became of your impression, what they missed.