Reasons for Moving
So ... four months, or five. Been awhile. Well, um, yeah. Yeah. (looking you in the eye) Yeah. Yeah! Yes. Very good. And the lord said, "Behold it is good." And believe you me, yes, oh yes, it was/is GOOD.
Forget the daily chronicles of Yarnia. No daily biopic here. Only a smidge of sad-bastarderism. No balderdash too ragamuffin for these hootenannies. This here summation is yet another reference point in a universes so full of centers my midsection is pregnant with song. But I do declare darling that no dress can be too tight if you can move in it, and no look pure enough if you have the love of life, of the little things. And I do declare gent that the bonds of friendship know no bounds except the ones we choose to set and those guidelines flexible as agile minds. Yeah, the spirit of peace is in me today thick like the mist around the treetops. An evangelical Happy Harry Hardon is in my soul. Me, a man with simple stories and complex backdrops of story that don't exactly fasten my pajama strings. Lounging here as I do in the morning with a sleeping dog nestled near, dreaming of seashores, what difference do I notice?
Where the grass has grown in between the paving stones? Where the blossoms have dried from early spring? How the coriolis storm of night has freshened the mountains we climb? Do I live in absences or presences? Is there much difference? What choices have I made? This much I know, I live; and effect people. Sometimes my bitter disdain for inhumanity scalds peops, other times my willingness for forgiveness draws a woman near. There's still distances. Some to surpass, some to enjoy the view from this angle. Horizons honey-dew to dappled oranges lit with apples of red squished like delicate cherries within full lips. Some divides dwell out there whose harshness we don't yet have the tools to dissemble... and that's alright, except when it isn't. A climber knows when a rock has his name.
So many rejuvenations, infancies, intimacies, and backtracks. Who hides his tracks better than the fool who doesn't realize he's already found? That's the truth. All angels and monsters, too often too interested in the stew to stew. We feast and forget, love and grow lukewarm to sow our sacred fires in other passions of the forest or desert or sea. Should I write a letter to a friend leagues away? Do I salve the impulse to explore and find the peace of nature by tossing on a pair of socks and moving towards the door. Here in the imagined interstitial everything is a door. Mine are usually wood no longer seen, instead of opalescent silver or hollow particle board. Big carved beasts. Heavy, knotted, with symbols and words encrypted with personal and ancestral meaning. The song, the dance, the late night conversation where the other's breath resides near and beloved. The occasional missed note, stumble, or mumble no misstep at all but a giant leap to the eternal moment.
Hey Cat, I'm patching my Daddy's best jeans. There's a lot of patching to be done but I don't believe in throwing away a perfectly good crucible such as lungs filled with the blood, sweat, tears, and amniotic fluids of linear convergence. To rise we place our wings on the wind. Wherever we fall we land. Wherever we call is home. Our aches lend themselves to cures. Ultimate reality cries out in every tainted news service and bullshit conversation uttered with a cigarrette and overindulgent self-importance. Something alive in the human soul is always asking to get unleashed. No matter if it is a display of miracle, terrestrial or domestic. The morning cup and a tale of dreams or the hand moving what shouldn't be moved according to someone with a PHD and too many fallacies, among their phalluses.
Today I'm off to volunteer yet again. What should I do? Who should I help? What bitch-ass needs to get slapped upside the head with words? Does the corner even know it's cornered? Do the rows know they're rowing? Does she know she's mine and somebody elses and that I have given myself to everyone too many times? And when the net falls around you and you get pissed cause it came with sequins do you squeeze out your Hollywood fear and break free or do you let wolves hunt you cause they know their own scent and what it feeds on? Can the interlocking peaks key the sky open? Wait and see.
Ask me this. Do I remember? How?
(writing exercise over)
Don't know what comes over me. I go to type an account of something and the pounding of the keys gets in my ears. I'll write something more practical for reals soon. For reals.
Forget the daily chronicles of Yarnia. No daily biopic here. Only a smidge of sad-bastarderism. No balderdash too ragamuffin for these hootenannies. This here summation is yet another reference point in a universes so full of centers my midsection is pregnant with song. But I do declare darling that no dress can be too tight if you can move in it, and no look pure enough if you have the love of life, of the little things. And I do declare gent that the bonds of friendship know no bounds except the ones we choose to set and those guidelines flexible as agile minds. Yeah, the spirit of peace is in me today thick like the mist around the treetops. An evangelical Happy Harry Hardon is in my soul. Me, a man with simple stories and complex backdrops of story that don't exactly fasten my pajama strings. Lounging here as I do in the morning with a sleeping dog nestled near, dreaming of seashores, what difference do I notice?
Where the grass has grown in between the paving stones? Where the blossoms have dried from early spring? How the coriolis storm of night has freshened the mountains we climb? Do I live in absences or presences? Is there much difference? What choices have I made? This much I know, I live; and effect people. Sometimes my bitter disdain for inhumanity scalds peops, other times my willingness for forgiveness draws a woman near. There's still distances. Some to surpass, some to enjoy the view from this angle. Horizons honey-dew to dappled oranges lit with apples of red squished like delicate cherries within full lips. Some divides dwell out there whose harshness we don't yet have the tools to dissemble... and that's alright, except when it isn't. A climber knows when a rock has his name.
So many rejuvenations, infancies, intimacies, and backtracks. Who hides his tracks better than the fool who doesn't realize he's already found? That's the truth. All angels and monsters, too often too interested in the stew to stew. We feast and forget, love and grow lukewarm to sow our sacred fires in other passions of the forest or desert or sea. Should I write a letter to a friend leagues away? Do I salve the impulse to explore and find the peace of nature by tossing on a pair of socks and moving towards the door. Here in the imagined interstitial everything is a door. Mine are usually wood no longer seen, instead of opalescent silver or hollow particle board. Big carved beasts. Heavy, knotted, with symbols and words encrypted with personal and ancestral meaning. The song, the dance, the late night conversation where the other's breath resides near and beloved. The occasional missed note, stumble, or mumble no misstep at all but a giant leap to the eternal moment.
Hey Cat, I'm patching my Daddy's best jeans. There's a lot of patching to be done but I don't believe in throwing away a perfectly good crucible such as lungs filled with the blood, sweat, tears, and amniotic fluids of linear convergence. To rise we place our wings on the wind. Wherever we fall we land. Wherever we call is home. Our aches lend themselves to cures. Ultimate reality cries out in every tainted news service and bullshit conversation uttered with a cigarrette and overindulgent self-importance. Something alive in the human soul is always asking to get unleashed. No matter if it is a display of miracle, terrestrial or domestic. The morning cup and a tale of dreams or the hand moving what shouldn't be moved according to someone with a PHD and too many fallacies, among their phalluses.
Today I'm off to volunteer yet again. What should I do? Who should I help? What bitch-ass needs to get slapped upside the head with words? Does the corner even know it's cornered? Do the rows know they're rowing? Does she know she's mine and somebody elses and that I have given myself to everyone too many times? And when the net falls around you and you get pissed cause it came with sequins do you squeeze out your Hollywood fear and break free or do you let wolves hunt you cause they know their own scent and what it feeds on? Can the interlocking peaks key the sky open? Wait and see.
Ask me this. Do I remember? How?
(writing exercise over)
Don't know what comes over me. I go to type an account of something and the pounding of the keys gets in my ears. I'll write something more practical for reals soon. For reals.
posted by Jason @ 9:04 AM
2 comments
