TheseHaaands

I’m sitting on the front porch looking up at the airplanes passing by, the vapor trail clouds crisscrossing and weaving patterns we’ll detect. But you can’t give meaning to something that was splattered like a Pollock print up in the sky, without any intention.  I can smell the smoke coming from around the corner. Crawling through the chimney of an old abandoned house. Through the windows. Through the cracks. Coming over the hills as I’m sitting here surrounded by winter branches. It’s coming this way… and all I can do is watch in a resigned confusion.  I might know how this ends. Read into the plotline I’ve laid out in the vapor trail memories, weaved together with paranoid, manic stitches. Stiches jagged and uneven. The politics of this crash were cut out in some night time memory.  Four hours ago. It was four hours ago.  And the pit sinks into itself, the sinkhole swallows up the neighborhood.  What in the fuck were you thinking? You don’t know what the hell you were doing sitting there in silence. In reverence for the sparks and crackles whispering in the ashy winds raging through your numb ears.  Time was never on your side, as much as the wind was at your back. It shifts and drags you down whatever road it pleases. Presses on your shoulder with a reassuring grip that hardens and softens with a frieghtening pulse. You can’t seem to figure out the number of times you were hit. The number of times you found yourself flashing back from a punishing strike. Turning days of the calendar were really pages pushed from a table… pages lacking any sort of binding. What you thought was a binding was just a line you drew to make sense of this sick menacing progression.  This is all meaningless after all. Don’t try to comfort yourself.  So you picked up on the winds whistling past. You lost what little say you had. Rationalized the irrational to give yourself control. Those young eyes sleeping on the pillow.  Till the night time rolls in and rips the skin from your bone-numb back you won’t be reading the script right. The scrolls fell in a meaningless tangle of letters that just couldn’t put me in my place. That just couldn’t let the red hot embers pinch my nerves.

Where have I been? How long have I been gone?  How did we get here?

Stone numb.

Why didn’t we read it in the scraps we caught?

From the letters we never sent? 

Won’t you let me in? I’m so cold.  And she opens the door to the lamplight.  Crawls towards me  with those mad palpitations rising through the floor cracking the roof, ripping the foundations.  Crumbling.  She won’t remember you. She’s too young and I’ll never be old enough. How old am I?

I’m just swinging on a rickety wooden playset with the woods loud with summer. Spring. Wet leaves. Puddles in the woodchips. Sandboxes. Sighing. Did I know then where it was all headed? I didn’t know then. Who was that person?

dated jul 6 2011

plans and reflections in the aftermath

internal:

a public world vs. the private self-reflection

style vs. self-knowledge and self-actualization

reflection vs. immersion in current experience

creation vs. internalization of product

self vs. other

fibers of memory vs. complete experience

acceptance from others vs. self-truth

distraction (possibility for further creativity) vs. concentration (work, completion)

intentions of art vs. perception of the observer (perhaps flawed… yet as individual, can it be flawed?)

sexual drive vs. rational experience

habit vs. health

perceived importance of long-term vs. immediate reality

interest vs. apathy

hard work vs. contentment

meditative vs. intensity

respect vs. individuality

health vs. happiness

respect for order vs. freedom of chaos

censoring, alteration vs. honesty

focus vs. varied

acceptance of the unexplainable vs. search for answers

teaching vs. understanding

working with the familiar (language) vs. using that which you have found to be fulfilling that isn’t accessible to all people

Not many people listen these days Or maybe I talk to much

Or maybe I trust too little Do I seem paranoid?

I don’t fit the role But the director is too stubborn To call it off now Investments were placed And now the crowd is waiting Waiting for something to happen Bored as hell

My hearts a scared deer knocked over Thrashing and shaking

do something ok i feel like i have to do something [distracted, looking at iPhone] music [the iPhone is in the dock; it is playing music]

please play something warm [feminine] feminine? does music have a gender? [comforting] it's weaving through the speakers morphing, bending, sighing [the door is open] i hope the bass isn't too loud you know it's too loud

what do people say about black holes? [energy can't be created or destroyed] can energy die? [hollow-eyed in the nursing home cot] when life leaves what are we

10:20-something, night ---------------------------

Drinking merlot and thinking,

"Does a throat full of red merlot   make me an asshole?"

A lazy anxiousness, feet on the back of the couch and candles slowing a living room

See... look: You're tricking me into thinking Everything is slowing down,              (dragging) Wrapped in some sweet tar-darkness

But there's that lazy anxiousness just simmering

all night.

All night---

ignored---

Till the phone buzzes; and I can't get up [gonna lose my train of thought] heart shakes [thinking about trip-pacing yellow-lit corners of this rug]