He goes to the ocean to touch the water and feel the sand beneath his feet. "This is now my life," he tells himself. Young, unshaven. The look of a vagrant but without piled up back packs. The air cleanses the system. Unclogs the arteries. Feeling the soul breathe. He is at a home here. At a resting place. The water is personified. Waves crashing with careful divination. There is something spirited, effervescent. "I can hear it calling me." A haunting and deeply moving example of a tune. Something that can outlive and outrace time itself to the end. We are so minute and callous never to feel these connecting emotions. The feelings that could gather us together in great numbers to apologize to the world. To mother nature and her children. We are more her children than we are god's. She is a presence we can physically feel. The ocean breeze. Radiating sun-warmth. Salty scars and scare tactics and motion sickness as we suddenly feel the earth spinning out from under us determined to shake us off like a bucking horse. (a fucking horse?) All of the grandeur, in the sense of splendor and impressiveness, not as in the social psychological sense of self-worth or material wealth in the eyes of others; a high class of social status. We are rats in a maze with no true exit. Inviting scents of warm food permeate through the still air but they seem to be coming from everywhere/nowhere. Did we imagine them?
Gregarious youth. Resplendent on the dance floor. (growing in open clusters or pure associations). Sumptuous in the red dress. Something to be atoned for later in a taxi cab confessional. We are all criminals of one form or another. Enter a state of ataraxia... a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquility. Drunk enough to feel the effects of sudden revelatory sentiments. Brought out by the depths of inebriated consciousness. "I don't remember what happened last night." Give this person a bottle and ask again. They'll tell the whole story. Get them sauced. That magic potion. The one that can teleport a person from one moment, in a crowded bar or restaurant at night, into a strange and head-throbbing morning. A lapse of consciousness in all of the glory of representation. A gaping hole in that memory. Forever gone. Sad to see it go but it must be so.
Motivate the sense to wish to try new sensation. Try that different flavor and become a better judge and jury for the world as a whole. Not as a bubble. But as a whole. A conflagration to take out the richest houses prior to purchased insurance. We, the small people, musicians with business ideals take note and remind ourselves to protect against that for future revenue. Invent new words put them in a dictionary of sounds you made up and then defined. Give a damn about verb tenses and pronouncement. We are beyond that embarrassment. No one snickers now. There are no classrooms full of texting middle schoolers to back the nonsense. Not in my life. Never.
Opulent. Poetry. Theatrical entrance. Harrowing detail. Revulsion. Quixotic plans to rearrange the shorelines of the world to spell out my name. Something crazy and idealistic but also unfathomable. You can't comprehend such nonsense without becoming a victim to that entire tragedy.
