i have a mad memory about many things, a crazy, sideways, glancing perspective. it remembers the sharp things, the hard things, the things that draw blood and create rain from lashes lowered to hide the things spinning behind lids; the thin flap of flesh that is guardian of the world from a mad thing that gleams like gunmetal, only disguised olive green.
most times, the frothing, rabidity is leashed by hope or by faith or by the insanity of idealism. they are martyrs, those three; standing with bitten, broken limbs and glowing faces, under the full moon, by the side of the pit beast who could eat the world and never be satisfied. beauty and beast, and one can never be sure which is really which and i begin to think that too, is deliberate.
so many paths and i’ve bout concluded i’m a patheopath; all lost in the patterns, making lace of them, connecting one to another to another and the concept of the one pattern that embraces all patterns continues to tempt and tease just outside my periphery – the vanishing point – but i can see the shape of it, outlined in nothingness, negative space, and more than anything, this is the thing that keeps these wooden limbs tot, tot, tottering along.
who was it that once said life is a stage? they lied, of course, for all that there are many who prefer thinking they run scripts rather than extemporaneously stumble and dance. i laugh now to think of the poor script analysts, stuck in the webbing of the pattern and unable to manage more for their need to believe understanding of everything and everyone may be found in the dark, quiet, illusory ‘safeness’ of a dead end.
the grass is always deader where you sit, isn’t it? no one appreciates the fact of that; always looking for something greener to destroy, to own, to control. the nice part about life is that it contradicts us at every turn — stillness is stasis is death but movement is illusory is singularly directed to the point of stagnation and this makes it all the same. and it’s all pointless because the real perfection is here, now, in the midst of the madness, with the memes wriggling like eels under skin, thoughts tunneling through the temporal and making still more loops in the weft of the imaginary fabric.
does it sound insane yet? or more frighteningly, does it begin to make sense? how do you know which is which?
i used to fear death and dying until i realized that humans are no different than anything else in this system — one thing becomes another and the thoughts that i think make up ‘me’ do not have to continue as i now know them to insure immortality. the not-me-ness still feeds the system, or it would if our systems and bifurcations allowed it. i want to be buried in an old cedar box, under a large oak tree, in the middle of a field i once had lunch within. i want to feed the ground so i can return in spring and be the flower that nourishes the bee who makes the honey that finds it way to your mouth…. or your children’s mouths…. eternity in one another, in inestimable ways.
does it seem sensible to you? would you believe i have no idea what i’ve written? that i would have to read it to know what you know at the moment you find this next question mark?
it’s liberation and delight and weirdness and maybe i made it all up and maybe i felt every letter and maybe you’ll never know except that you already think you do so why does it matter what i say anyway?
you ever ask yourself what this world would be like if all the things you feared were real and true? or if all the things you hoped were? or if the only thing keeping you from the thing you want or need most in this life is your inability to take it, accept it, acknowledge or see it unless it is all pretty and dressed in ribbons and matches the silly cardboard cutout of ‘it’ that you carry in your head?
can you even say you know what ‘it’ is? or do you only know it by its absence?
the best part about the first day of spring is that it is a reminder that clean slates and new beginnings and second/third/fourth/uncountable chances are forever in the palm of our hands…. seedlings that can grow any time we are willing to set them into the soil of ourselves and let them.
meaning is where you find it, but no matter where you find it, it’s always in you.