autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

A regular, revolutionary thought (hah)

I want to make a revolution against what we are told is life. I want to overthrow the plastic contentment of consumer electronics and on-demand video and conveniently bite-sized philosophy, ideology, and community. No more dog parks where watching animals play while making polite, non-intrusive conversation substitutes for playing, and no more sitting in restless proximity in the stands as the totality of shared experience.

I want revolutionary thought. Not that plodding, walking cane thinking that is led by the local authority or the suitably restrained and ever-so-diplomatic moderator. Give me sacriledge and shock. I want to gather on the mountaintop, in a lightening storm, and scream being while strangers shiver and cringe until all the veils drop away and we know ourselves alive and connected; chain-lightening burning away all this carefully constructed oneness hiding behind fences and personal space; segregated as if it is sanctified.

I want to make a glorious mess of all this organized insanity; challenge the boundaries of appropriateness and approachability. I want to be all up in the grille and smile feral, giddy happiness to inhale you and know you do the same; shared air, shared life.

I want to chase you breathless until we collapse, falling freely and without care to laugh for the way it looks as we do so; all kalideoscopic color and light, no sense but the common one, the fullness of what the five bring; the utter exhilaration of the moment that was, is, and is no more and quick! Let’s make another!

Anarchistic and disheveled, I want to sit in the middle of the road and be fanned by swerving cars; send them all outside the norm; line ordinance violation of the mind. I want to rip the bandage of normalcy off and gasp for the feeling of air upon virgin being; have certainty that the only thing keeping my insides within me is that slenderest barrier of skin against which the experience constantly, relentlessly, insistently presses.

I want to find my partners in cultural crime. Not the ones who do it for attention, not the ones who need it to remember they are alive, not the ones who use it to hold the world around them hostage, but the ones who grok that it means everything and, paradoxically, beautifully, utterly, nothing at all.

Where the FUCK are you?