When I was young I was so lateral
Wanting to move flowers from one place to another
Shred the beautiful day into a million beautiful pieces. It’s impossible to lose now. Science tells me that and I choose to believe it. I don’t want the head of the snake to mean less than the bitten tail. I cannot name what isn’t the same even after it’s been torn. And if I can’t name it, how could it be real to me. My willpower deserts it’s holster, I speak freely and plan freely for the witchcraft of life. In this witchcraft, to say something is to give it blossom. I don’t speak freely of things which I won’t choose to blossom. There are loads of words I’ll never say here nor anywhere. These are the words that exist in deep harmony with the id. The id must be modulated by language. Just like my terrible heart. Represented in lines and hues, my heart has no syntax. It has no units of measurement or value. It’s lines, too gentle and in motion to be bent into the familiar shape of an alphabet. My heart is proto-alphabetical. Within it are all the forms I seek. Even the ones I dare not speak.
I am happy to have too many clothes even as I get rid of them. It is a happy process to determine what you do and do not need. It is a happier process when you determine what you do not need but are glad to keep anyway. I accept decoration. I accept my words to fail. I accept the form of a sapling to attempt the form of a dreamed tree. I do not hold the seed in contempt for what it did or did not achieve.
I’m in love with the falling blossoms of May.
I’m in love with the sound of a school bell ringing and the holler of young voices in the school yard. Does anyone ask them if they are in pain or joy? Even if you did I’m not sure if there’s an answer. Maybe both, maybe neither. The scream is non-morphemic. The blossoms are non-morphemic. My heart is non-morphemic. What’s non-morphemic is potent and potential. What’s potent and potential godly. What’s godly is the dance of masculine and feminine with no boundaries.
That’s why the images of life are never outlined. That’s why they’re beautiful. I can only guess where the leaves end and the sky begins, and given the conical nature of vision I am inevitably wrong. I translate the image of the world into my lexicon. I determine line where none exists. I use line to understand shape. I use shape to understand identity. I use language to understand identity. This is where my understanding stops. The spectrum however, is non linear. There are things beneath beyond beside and within understanding that language can not access. There are tools for understanding that lie beneath beyond between and beside language that we forget to teach. This is the witchcraft. This is the proto-blossom. I aim to rest in its belly. I aim not to speak. I aim to inhabit and thereby characterize life. The language of god is form. The nature of the ecosystem is telescopic in all directions and all dimensions. The motion is translatory. Understanding is illuminating and concealing by virtue of there being an observer. Above all else I aim to turn noise into music. Above all else I accept failure as salvation. I shred the beautiful day into beautiful pieces. Nothing can be lost, only misinterpreted. Goodbye.
