Feeling Great About Not Letting Words Escape

Housessitting at my sister's place, formerly my grandma's house. When I was 9 I apparently ran into the fire here in the bathroom where I communed with the wee folk, I don't remember any such incident of bolting crying into the flames but I've heard tell. The ghost of my teeny blind grandma and my tall thin extremely gentle grandfather still reside here, at least in the form of relevant memories.

My little nephew is adorable. I've shed my more hippy-dippy terminolgy (I used to call special children star children). He truly is a sweet kid when he says my name he looks at me and glows. He looks in my eyes, he is naming more than an archetype. He is not simplifying he is intoning. Watching him take on attributes and become a complete person is an eventful process I cherish.

I always return to this concept of being a complete person. For me lately, being a complete person means indulging my mystical side only so much. Nietzsche was embarassed by The Birth of Tragedy for its excesses and lack of clarity. These days I often chuckle as I compare my reactions to situations now, compared to my reactions of yore. Whether out of eagerness towards a preconceived ends or fear that made me recoil from certain outcomes I no longer so amply feed mass-energy explosion then dissipating mindplay. While this may sound as if I'm going more static this is not true. Stasis is not a state I aspire to but rather I aim to achieve a state of simulflow, like the figure in the Corpus Christi Carol or the scene on the back panel, The Last Judgement, of the Sistine Chapel. In both examples something flows to and something flows from and they seem opposed to the untrained eye. Where things come from and where they go... we need to be local and global. To have both in view and that something more...

Every point is a point of confluence. Whether Rebecca doesn't sense my ability to commit fully or whether I reject someone on grounds of certain factors that I fail to explain to them because the explanation seems as if it would be too abstract for them and therefore hurtful, decisions are not end-all decisions. Every moment is an echo of the eternal moment. The trick is to let the possibilities become actualities without fervent rejection or zealous gluttony. Rather let your little nephew throw himself over the couch at you so he can flop and laugh as he lands across where you lay, when his eyes meet yours let them look in the core not at some surface figuring.

Heraclitus says, "All those seeking wisdom ... inquire within." Art is the enigmatic expression of that which is inexpressible. Art is a dynamic reference to something much bigger. A collection of sounds woven together, a moment with clattering cups and snippets of conversation lilting over the milk-steaming wands whir and the doorbells welcoming clang, combines with the smell of the girl in the dress who turns her shoulder just so, six inches behind you to the left, so that you can each glimpse each other in snatches. Harmony.

And there is harmony in dischord. Right as we are to reject inhumanity in the form of verbal deadening or internment camps or massacred ecosystems the sounds of Sonic Youth are poignant. We need startling examples to react against both within ourselves and from our environment. The Pixies rear back and distortion fuzzes into our ears. Jesus and Mary Chain scrape our scalp with feedback and we are fed back to the possible causes of such an anguish. Lyrics paint the picture of comforts that are lies, and phobias that are really boundaries thrust up to keep us safe from the great gains of risk build in the songwriter's tapestry. Who are we if not protagonists prepared to play important roles in other people's stories? To ask, "How does it feel?"

So much character is necessary to achieve simulflow. To be and not be, to experience and not be passive in the stillness, to react but not reach too hard within the summoned emotions, to learn with hard work the appropriate emotions and behaviors to the crossroads of so many factors. To have a personal stamp that allows for the other person's bud to flourish into bloom. To put one's hand over one's mouth, onto one's neck, onto another's hand.

I love my sister's dog. It's a Shit Zoo. The dog's favorite toy is a Mounty at which it growls in the most vicious growl you've ever heard from a ten pound dog. Okay, maybe it's not vicious if you see the source. Man this tap water is just not tasty. The first big frost up here was this morning. I skipped out on a co-worker's party tonight. Plans were just too hectic. I can't neglect the dog, after all. I think I'll become better friends with Erin, she has an uncanny down-to-earthness in her wacky presence. Absenteeism is not as fascinating as absentee ballots, I need to call some people and ink up some snail mail. Love you all, I'm going to nod off now and let the dog sleep on me making my stomach (where he lays) absurdly warm. If I don't look you in the eyes the next time we meet then you don't see me.

Perhaps I'll dream of heroism with green swords and maidens who are strong enough to ford the river to my arms.