If you have interest, click the track titles right at the start of this piece, three links before/during reading, each one elemental ingredient from this spontaneous jog through a dialogue with oneself, inspiration as The Sun was rolling away on an early November New York day.
I took a walk to hit reset, hit play and these three songs, in this order, came up, all as either backdrop or collaborators — both — to my own.
Listen if you wish and then you’ll understand, Mr. Sulu.
Enjoy!
Happy Sunday.
La Perla, by Sofia Kourtesis
I Just Can’t Take It Anymore, by Gram Parsons
American Girl, by Tom Petty
“Life never has a happy end, but there is hope if we work as a community”.
-Sofia Kourtesis
Closer to the horizon you sail. Farther on past the ruffling jib, The Sun drifts.
If you want to catch a glimpse, rethink your providence. Narrow the aperture and quiet your appetites.
Change the game, swap out the narrator’s frame. Go on. Turn the knob to a new door of perception, open and walk on through to the other side.
Sofia says on La Perla “Tu y yo. En soledad. Igual aca. Tratando de cambiar. Tratando de olvidar.” You and I. Lonely. Same here. Trying to change. Trying to forget.
Then, Gram talks about a thing or two, on why You went away.
Me? I still have not figured it all out, why I love her now as much as I still, always Love You.
Why I am all caught up in her or the other one, too, I know not. To both I expressed affection & love excepting this minor, stubborn fact — because it’s true. They make me think. They make me laugh. They have blazing minds and shimmering, dazzling eyes.
I have been labeled a pariah as defined by the intellectual ruling class.
IDGAF. I’m anti-social, paranormal and I’m sure, to some, a sociopath.
What am I gonna do? Go out on the town? Take a bite out of The Big Apple? So many people living life like nothing ever happened, some not even mindful, still, on distance and breath and covering faces — at the very least — when they sneeze. WITAF? Are you kidding me?
Enough is enough.
Firmament cracks as a shell, yolk letting go, light dripping out. Dawn, coming after me as I, ever watchful, keep mind of the thoughts streaming free, live in my head’s multiverse radioed TV. All along this peasant’s path I treasure, although I harbor no illusions I am no peasant only a slave to the illusion I ought be in the ruling class, a stillness evolves from within these walls, a grounding rod. I choose this Silence, the one fool’s gold of which I cannot pump enough through my veins, even as harbinger of a winter refrain may demand I speak up, call me by my very own name. It’s that or spit it into the wind.
Silence, to heel the freighter mind roaring down Highway 49, maybe provide it guard rails. It is the only thing I have to call mine and only mine excepting Her company.
The Mistress of Night, clad in swatches of delicate Ultraviolet Light, a lingerie that swaddles me as a somewhat, somewhere between lover, newborn and hapless cuck.
Her true companion, The Mountain of Blackwatch Night, looks on as she sucks the vitality from my bones, the churning foam ‘n froth of all the plays I left on the field, all the inquiries I still can’t answer and all the realities probably will never know.
Bathing in my sea of creativity or despair, I can’t quite glean, my spirit regenerates to a waking dream.
Quiet that is quite tender blankets me tight even as traffic hums from the overpass across the street, a species ever-restless in motion’s messianic buzzing beat. The Mother grooves, spins on @27,000 miles per hour as I learned in school, on her axis with effortless aplomb, soundless, rattleless hum. She watches, laughing at me as I, with expectant chagrin, see day drawing nearer, inescapably chasing after me, racing in a fiery blaze, no mercy, no peace within.
The chariot, led by those thundering steeds and The Master at his post, arcing up, out and across the canopy. I’ll need to wait him out, even when the other one returns to block His Rays, incessant laundry on the line throwing shade, drawn out time after time, day after day. It’s ok. But, seriously anyway — How the fuck can one person have so much laundry in a house of three and why do the spawn return anew to deposit theirs, too, when they are all grown, allegedly and rumored to have homes to call their own, festooned with machines or, dunno, laundromats in their hood? What in the actual fuck is up with that? Water’s consumption. The chemicals. Ugh. Makes me sick. It makes no sense and clearly a lot of dollars spent at that but it is what it is and that, as they say, is that.
No turning back as I follow the train of his majesty’s electric cape. Nimbly, he moves on to the western gate. Harbinger of the Knight and his Maid, both in splendid form return, watch over me once more. I am unsure. Is this night I the one when I will be entreated to divine all the mysteries and subtle wonders sublime, walking between stars and watery beams? La Luna and Venus travel together these days it seems, a lusty and enviable pair with whom I wish I could…
Well. You apprehend.
Maybe my body will wrestle with the separation in store, wresting any notion of rest and a chance for quieted, fevered brow, the same as would a child facing his chores. Maybe the body, sore and tested, will receive a Heaven scented, wafting down from the waning apple blossms, separate peace, blessed to sleep like a boar, even permitted the grumbling contentment of a snore.
Tonight might be the night that Πυθία finally professes Love, The vision of Her in my quest, her wonderment, an unflinching, unceasing Oracle, through whose gaze the moment (which is not a moment because time not only suspends but doesn’t really exist) and the dimensionless space where my soul and heart mend, travel across the Plane, relentless in fulfilling the never-ceasing journey, the beginning of the end, to garner and harvest each countenance, memory and dream, with them reflect to repatriate this meager vessel and here, on This Earth, in this illusion of time, tend to my garden, feed humanity once again with what paltry services and goods I might lend, what seedlings grown to fully fruited flowers, fauna to feed bees, butterflies, avian life, felines and humans.
The beat of the heart repeats until it will, at any moment yet to be told, cease. Once more unto the breach and I may be absolved of all that came before, free of the how and the what and the where and the when to inhabit something akin to …
Nothing.
The faster you run, the quicker the setting of the Sun.
Cover art by Cyanide Chicken. Buy Them a coffee (if you want;).
Bibliography:
Pig Earth, by John Berger