No one is anywhere. We all start over from scratch every second. I write to go down the worm hole, to see what I unearth. I write to find dead ends.
We’re all so anxious for the future. It holds nothing. It holds us back. Live for the exact breath in front of your nose, and the next, and the next.
My philosophy boils down to blank. I just monkey around. So I say fling bananas if it makes you howl. Scribble your dreams fully conscious; don’t leave them to chance in slumber. Freely speak your feeble mind, like a marble shot across carpet shag to a circle of hippie drag. Just breathe it in deeply and don’t let go.
Tell your story. Type your glory. March butt backward to the drum of your own beat. Write and write and write, and never stop failing in this.
But, of course, sometimes I’m squeamish. Squeamish about the dreams that seem distant as alien aircraft. Uncertain of the sermon. Lost in sentence fragments. Lacking a connector.
I ask pointed questions and give muddled answers. I flap ruffled feathers and judge flipping pages. I hold tightly structure and give loosely my affections. I shiver at science and marvel at nothing. I misstate old dogma and incur bloated analysis. I ramble amorous lectures and text snark of inconsequence.
I’m so rusty and out of practice I sound like a sonnet read backwards. Like a tuba playing a tumor. Barely the diligent energy to etch a single thing in stone. It’s all pencil shavings and pink eraser dust now. A sapped out tree, sticky and empty.
We all kinda levitate between the promised land and the real world, don’t we?
There’s a wing and a prayer, and then there’s a sling and a noose. And in between, the fairy dust drawings of a dangerous future. The ones that gets us blitzed as wine and church and love and motion.
So on we go.
Writing is the best form I know to draw myself. Not as I appear but in a big sloppy mess with parts sticking out.
So on we go.
The worm hole. The deep breath. The fumbling in darkness. The simple faith of crazy ritual. The knowledge that the sentence never ends, that the periods are ellipses, that we strike out boldly, silently into nothing, swept up in ourselves and our lust for enlightenment, we row wild waters for nights on end, looking up to the moon, to the jungle, to the blackness, wishing to be something more.
But we are complete already. In the instant we breathe out. In the worm hole or out. The giddy heights of rage. The ornery steps of silence. The cartwheels of courageous laughter. The head-spinning circus of routine. Plowed up against the wall in some mangled car wreck. On fire and alive. A dog face grin, a child’s smile.