A Diatribe On My Dislike of Bars

So many times I have mulled over in my head what I want to say in a forum such as this, or in a memoir (which, thankfully, I have never set out to write), or in zines (many of which I've chosen to go the route of less murky territory than some of my daily recollections). I'm thankful that the sharpness of my recall has dulled in many places. We must make choices. The finite is threaded intricately through the eternal. To dote on the loss of certain goddesses is folly in the old tradition of falling in love with the moon. How implacable & cold it would be to love something one can only touch with the vibrant urgency of imagination! We must have the 'geometry of innocent flesh on the bone' to grip & soothe & stare into.

Partnership, two-as-one, the collective in the individual, the many flowing forth & blossoming through the seeming of a single source--- try & lay that out simply. The fabric twists & splits & rains down & burrows into the most remote cavern with wondrously strange adaptations. To commodify, to suck down a cigarrette as the most acceptable form of suicide, to live off processed, chemical-laden canned food. Fuck that! Touching the life cycle informs a sense of responsibility. Looking in the mirror & tracing the traits passed on from uncountable ancestors is a means to owing up to the stewardship we should all entrust ourselves with. That love holds grief in the folds of its dress, that the alluring creature may have supposedly demonic goat legs is necessary. What matters demands danger & gifts to those with boldness & the humor to combat despair.

Last night I went to a bar. Shit man, I hate those places even when they're seething with James Brown, dim light, old brick, gorgeous wood, & dynamic pinball machines--- not to mention slinky, sexy, smart girls who know how to look you in the face & create moments. People's bullshit falsehood drips from the walls & chandeliers & cue-tips like ectoplasmic goo. Give me coffee & a willow tree in a trellised courtyard anyday. Instead of bad dance music replays on occasion give the me the harmonies & violin & harmonica of Bob Dylan's Desire which always elicits images of sunlit, hand-holding in fields with sun-dappled horses. Megan listened to that album in Ireland on a small island while the old stone hostel was uniquely quiet, give me the memory of someone I care about whose blue eyes are tender with understanding not the swish & miss of sexual balderdash. Foreplay as the misrepresentation of fulfilling desires is so trite. Sigh, I know people have trouble communicating. I certainly have my blind spots. After years of willfullness I still have a paltry pallet of colors to express the formerly incommunicable. Still, to know what one desires, 'to keep things known in common', to have a commons, should be a basic function of human relationships. That we shadowdance & don't know what we want to such an extent that we stab & rape each other in both physical & psychical senses is ---- well you get the point. The true point is that we should try to say what we need to say on this earth & that bars drive me insane because people only say some of that important matter in a half-assed way because they are impaired. Even if their drift is heartfelt in the midst of their stupors they just sound less than who they are, unless they're really fucking cool like my friend Meilani. Whatever. Ahh, rice mocha. Leaves dangling in the wind.