i should write something. i should work on the fancifeast octopus story of previous posts- update it. let the spiraling tentacles become a staircase and walk down it into the depths of every imaginative "pop". get down to the boiler room and study the synaptic reaction up close- transcibe it's artful expansion- wonder at it's pathlessness, it's newness- the way it takes random colors from the full spectrum- picks up pebbles but disregards shells- the way it's collection fits together, seamlessly rendering some grand complexity from that "pop"
-----------
i'd like to. i'd like to watch that "pop" as a flawless origami gazelle manifested into an Eden- walking from flower to fountain- laying the foundation of it's possibilities- gathering strength, testing the muscles folded in its legs. i'd like to follow it out and see it run, but i can't right now. and i can't let it go on it's own either.
-----------
my reality is an earthquake that in shifts leaves me cautious and intimidated or chaotic and careless. it is ever present, underlying.
-----------
building a drop of water-
-----------
i should put that "pop" under a microscope, into a centrifuge- i should reverse engineer that "pop"- turn it inside out like some cruel hunter- roll its organs in the dirt and pretend i'm learning what makes it work? for what? it spells the same in either direction. there is nothing to learn. there is no chicken there is no egg- it's all just leaf fragments from last fall- whipped up in a dust devil in my mind- going nowhere, just churning and smashing itself, butting up against the same confined eggshell interior. in fifty years it will be fine dust, 15 if i keep drinking like i do.
-----------
Posted by: |