You gave me the stone, gave me the chisel, didn't say how to hold 'em. Out of my depths. I've been thinking about how finding myself in a certain style of no-one man's land can be paradoxical. It seems that sometimes being without the right tools or knowledge or level of equipedness can lead to brilliant cracks of stray light running through tips of fingers, or tangles of twisted knots of hair, leading to genius, or simply something better than before. I'm sorry.
I'm out of practice. I'm out of my self. Out of, to be honest, chalky pills, in a way. Out of a certain semblance of balance. Weights tipping the scales, an equilibrium of bitten nails and shaky trains of thought colliding through the tunnels. A simple picture of chaos, a suburban block in flames, four and five year olds chasing us down with sticks and the barbs of unfettered tongues and innocent glares. My mind's less than well. In other words. Not that we've ever seen ourselves as wordy, as chasing truth through the hazy view of streaming together consonants and vocalizations. I'm sorry.
The one constant. Shame, guilt, call it penance. Call it streams of consciousness, babbling brooks, lakes of loquaciousness. Call it.
It was this or a blazing through the darkness or a simple case of insomnia. I'm going to dislike all of this blabbering bullshit tomorrow, but for now, a few words of truth, hopefully. Tomorrow night, a conversation with Jocelyn that I've stretched and pulled thin, a tension that can't be touched. Musings on the future and the West and the drippy-droppy of an i.v., tears splashing, scenes playing through the space between these two ears. And here I am, capsized.
She simply can swallow me whole. I've written similar verbiage, honey dripped letters of desire and some sort of understanding of humanity, relationships, two people finding each other in themselves. But they've been hollow, a laundry list of guesswork, struggling for something concrete. I've written that 'whole' line before, but it's only been shadows and chalk outlines. And now that I've come so close, squinting behind, around my wrap-arounds at this eclipse. And now, I'm terrified. It's too much power to give up, too quickly. And all these words fall, failing to live up to the simple message. Complexities in their simplest forms.
A healthy distrust, they say. Free-styling my own frailties. And I wonder why and who we show ourselves to when we're like this. I mean, fractured in the most fragile aches of the angles of acned insecurities. My futon's cracked down the middle, a simple nail misplaced in ages, nothing, nothing, nothing. Then, slow creaks and cramped spaces, a simple misplaced foot causing wooden shards. Scotch tape lasts only so long. Which leaves me with this- a broken bed in it's weakest place, the space between two people. The longest distance we never seem to fill. Do you see it? Can I? Not at all. And now I'm close to closing this all. Shutting down this gushing flow of... nothing.
I went to the library to pick up some books for my kids (insects and spiders, in the spring, etc) and ran into a table edge. And some old friends, Hemingway, Saramago, and Haruf. The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories and I can't bring myself to read The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. Not just that I don't want to finish the book, since all good things must... well... be. No, there is something about this story of stories. It's more than simple words, strong characters, a plot of points. It's a damn good story, it is. But it's more. And I'm speechless, in a manner of writing, so I guess for the moment,there's this - "Cleans out your liver," said Wilson. "Damn funny things happen to people."
And of course, there is the owner of this title, a possible parable of sorts by Saramago. Beautiful and bursting with confusion. And then finally the verbiage found it's vantage point, it's breaking, a litmus tests of it's own limits. But like I said,
I'm out of practice. I'm out of myself, flash flood floating, flying along.
"Wilson!!!" (These strings are tethered, connected, metaphored out of simplicity).
And always, LOVE.
No comments:
Post a Comment