Be somewhere where momentum is the atmosphere. What do I really want? Jesus Christ, all I want is peace of mind! No specific goal, specific dream, there was a time when I was well versed in philosophy and religion and it all seemed to be geared somewhere, but really, it distills down to a project to feel good about, someone to make love to. I want to use my body until it sweats everyday underneath the sun. There are so many things I like to do, but almost none that I could never do without. I’m so fucking skeptical of the world and yet transcendent in a nearly childish way: all goes. Anything I could, I could just as easily not. All is a sea of why nots. All is a mushpit of sures and I could go with thats. I have things I want to write but when I sit down to do it, I slog through the same self-defeating thought process and nothing gets written: Yes, the world will collapse, so I guess right now, I should be training myself to live post-apocalyptic. What if technology does save the day and a post-apocalyptic world in which the resume is the only thing is all that remains?!
Aracadia. You could die in your sleep, engulfed in a swirling world of flames, or throw your life away an ascetic. Throw it away treading water in anxiety. There are things to be gone for and these are all always felt, but then the back is turned for what is easy and what feels good, then going for what is not necessarily easy is applauded as the highest virtue and meanwhile, we age.
Capitalism: the gratification for the substance of your soul in the form of a paycheck: thank you. So easy to demonize, equally easy to cite heroes who had nothing like this kind of bad taste in their mouths. How do you write about others? How do you tell stories beyond an everwheeling, poorly described thought process?
Inversion, aversion. A man in mind is on the track of fulfilling his cult-like dreams of greatness. Helping people is his M.O. and his method is self-promotion. A healer. A musician. An activist. If he were to sail a boat for 2 weeks, it would be incidental: to get to his next performance. Miracleman.
Again against the mold: teaching to pass the time, collect a paycheck, while the great movements of world history come and go unattended. I’ll be there. I’ll be minding the movement, and the petty changes chimed by the contro-band sing the rise obliviate.
Beneath the velvet grey sky, behind a pane of glass, warm, enclosed, music drowning the otherwise silent room. Lost in stripes and ongoing songs of possibility. Tales otherwise untold. Otherwise, I will never know. Lock me in a room, entomb me this pressure cooking day amidst the glassblown glaciers, blue rain of burning sunshine. Seeping into the questions of hairthick possibles. 1,000 words have come before...and will come again.
What are the potentials? How we will fill our aching bellies. How do we fill them? Loneliness is desperate. The family way, the working way, the fighting way, gives no space for that burning oblivion.
It’s as simple as a moss. To rise to the occasion. The handed question, somenow, is always already occasional. If war comes to you, you go to war. If challenges come to you, you rise to the challenge. In the meantime, eat. It doesn’t matter what. All is a vote, but health is more important than politics. Just like writing an editorial explaining your vote is more important than the vote itself. You may not even reach the polls that day. Ice cream and coronets. Is the experience of conviction more potent than the act of creation?
History comes and goes, the only value it can hold is the experience of the front lines. The Portland Clowns have courage and conviction to exist absurdly in a hopeless age. Stay weirder than the Joneses, get laid, live politically and refuse to vote.
Lift me, air suspended by a breath, deepened by the dreamers and crying lots.
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