| Posted On: | 2010-07-05 07:37:17 |
Everything - fragments of beautiful heartache, every meaningless piece of life made significant in a sensual psychosis. Everything collides, when I step back and look at the chaos I am content – life is exploding relative big bangs all around me – I am part of the process. Fuck self, fuck other. This is not about hate, this is about the Way. In the span of two weeks I lost my father, transmuted into something new, loved and had my heart broken, unearthed my heart in sound while it was being formed and torn apart, and loved my family through our becoming. What does it mean to lose my father, now? To see my mother in her own hell, with its own process... becoming something else, always beautiful. Change is a deconstructive process in atomic reality. It takes another perspective to build Things. Walk the line, sometimes it will even feel like you’re winning, remember to laugh at yourself so you don’t fall off.
Rain. Every day for a week this sky is growling grey, purring thick white, dreaming schools of fish floating idly across morning sun blue space. Tropical winds without their storms; warm currents in summer city caressing rooftop thighs, people lingering below to a rhythm around the next corner, and storms arriving in silence, clearing on whims, washing away the days, weighing and releasing spirits from the Beat. Clear nights for meditation, giving names to the stars whose names were lost when men became kings, when god was invented. From a distance I watch the heart of the world grow and shrink with my own heart. Everything has become somewhat translucent; quantum foam is reflexive to my postmodern perspective... such is the dialectic. And my naive faith in irony is paradoxical, I’m metaphysically fucked, I’m aware. Real is peace. Everything else... let it go.
I believe in entropy! I give my heart now and forever to rock time! Take me through the ageless ages of sedimented mindlessness. And even though my dreams are less than dreams – phantoms lurking day and night without discretion, taking me and forgetting me – everything eludes my grasp now that I know who I am. The mirror of death is upon me and I am alone. Maybe this is every story, maybe not... it doesn’t change a thing, authenticity has no more content, no more form, only feeling for itself, forgotten on a present-loop never ending. I like to imagine that in timeless space we harmonize our presents to open wormholes and travel in firefly ships everywhere at once and together, one blur of total energy in an imagined closed system. Nothing is ever certain... Irony, Faith, Paradox. Nowhere.
Listening To: Van Morrison - Saint Dominic's Preview
