by practicalspactical

I’ve been somewhat silent for awhile. Cheating on myself with others. The dignity of work. Busyness and business. Went to see the Icthyians last Sunday, swallowed down a cocktail of chemical contradictions — found myself being pulled in too many directions. Enjoyed myself certainly, a numby haze, compounded by a Swine Flu false alarm. I spend my days these days down in the Financial District, where old narrow streets and old narrow buildings vie with the skyscrapers of yesteryear and countless myriad lunch-places. There is an old honesty to that area — the first place — the Old City.

No brilliant revelations. I have to work harder, be more. I have to shape my body — exercise — run — lift weights. I need new white sneakers, and t-shirts, and shorts. I survived another semester of law school — by hook, crook, and the mercy of my teachers. I sent my daimon to take the test for me. How many ghosts do I have walking around and running errands for me? Which one is real? Does it slumber? Does it dream? Iambic feet. Maybe. Book of Forms.

I know the song the ocean sings. I am a series of references. My breath upon the water imposes narrative upon reality — mythmaking of some kind or another — my action is a message — a translation — adding (or excavating) significance. Growths and protuberances. Polluting biology upon the still and natural world. Who are we? What are we? Beautiful monkeys, clay on the potter’s wheel, the Potter’s name is Death and Struggle and Scarcity, cruel cold world, fought for love, or love too — love too is an expression of that endless war of survival, fought from the very beginning by Old Grandfather Amoeba, whose still out there, somewhere, hiding in a corner.

My words lack backbone, form, and structure. Crippled. Blobbed. Grotesque. Containing multiples. Many lives. Many views. I twist in all directions. Beautiful faces. Names spoken with pregnant meaning. The distances between us. Lies within lies. What is the truth and what is truth? Two very different questions — I took the one less traveled, it’s made the difference — I was 10 when I read that — I was the imaginative Birchbender, dwelling in and learning to doubt the Pathetic Weather-Based Fallacy — it was a dark and stormy night — two nights ago the crash of thunder woke me from my sleep — automatic response took over, I closed the window —

Even now — the night grows later — I grow tired — I’ve stretched — I’ve expanded — the more I do the more I can do — cobwebs across my eyelids — I wonder if some of its been flushed — if the seven different chemicals canceled each other out and left me babelike in the morning.