My brain is restless and hungry.
I imagine a way to write that is based more on rhythm than on content, listening to the sound of fingers on keys rather than formulating your thoughts.
I can’t think about the things that are going on around me anymore. It’s too unclear; my feelings have become indistinct and muddled. Previously precipitous highs and abysmal lows have combined and I feel like I’m experiencing them simultaneously.
The sun comes out and shines but I wince; I did not miss it as much as I thought I did.
I wish that all the things that are swirling around me like a cyclone of life could be freeze-framed and zoomed in. Could be instant replayed. Could be broken down and analyzed on CNN.
But my life is a puddle of mud and I guess what rests at the bottom is me.
How can I extricate my past from my present from my future when all three seem to by pounding at my door simultaneously? I lie and say that things are finally coming together but the truth is that they are collapsing all around me.
We are talking about art. We may as well just sew our mouths shut and swallow our own tongues like an epileptic. Trying to create in a world that conditioned to consume.
So we talk about premonitions, and duty and “how we gonna do this,” but what it all comes down to is the word on the printed page. ones and zeroes.
“I was born in Chicago to a whore of a mother that sold me on the street for half of the next month’s rent. I was raised in a gutter in shanghai by monks that practiced extreme auto-laceration. I was dismembered and gutted. raped and tortured. I was everything that threatened to feel me up, to turn me out, to take me in.”
“I’ve been eviscerated by those I hold most dear. I am a vapid monk, I am a taken skunk, I am a train of thought, an afterthought, an asterisk, a footnote, a blue note, an unanswered invitation. I am an apology. I am an ascertainment, and ascetic, and antiseptic. pour me out and watch me bleed. Feed me to your pigs and watch them seed. Take me to another world, teach me all your prayers. Tell me how to worship you and the ground you walk on; I want to plant flowers in your footsteps. I want to map your future and eliminate your past. You are a satellite orbiting my misery and misfortune. I am lost, I have found myself, a piece of lint that can murder the world. I sleep when I am awake, and I wake myself in my sleep to save time that others squander. I am the tortoise-shell shoe horn that chases you through your dreams. I am the rhythm that tears apart your ears.”
3:20 the song fades out and it is time to sleep. dreaming is a remedy for blackness. There is no music here.