7:52 - 8:12
There are shiny diamond ideas in your eyes and I want to extract them for my own uses. During which, we can walk jolly from the covered cafe to the watered down cemetery and make a strange use of space on a hillside for all members of our family to be buried, rotting, beneath those tomes of sleet rock and sharp, staggering lines cut with crosses and godly men, born again upon death, when the reality from our worldly perspective looks rather stark and bleak especially when forests are cut down to necessitate room for the disposal, religiously of course, of our bodies and we become, underground open casket, part of the cycles, the natural cycles of earth, decompose and interact with other species hidden deep beneath the mineshafts and flower gardens, the squeaking breaks outside, the head is numb and the words real all strange coming out.
The coffee clicks ready and I envy that automatic process for completion of a task. Mornings find me lately in various stages of lethargy mixed with neck pain and vague frustration. Technology fundamentally messing up that rhythm of the day I desire. There are moments of clarity shot down my electric pulses sent from my broken printer. My dream catcher might be working against me as well, although this was an archaic technology made from natives near the Grand Canyon. There is glass that reflects me and I don't look like him. There is a dull head ache hidden behind my eyes for fear of inevitable end and a suspicious that nothing I ever do will matter.
How sweet to fall victim to these thoughts of inadequacy. Canopies of chandeliers well lit, euphotic, in this ballroom mind. Masquerade dances with other versions of myself. All participants had to decide which mask they would wear and if the pain seared on them would show or if they took the chameleon route and tried to blend, wholesomely, into the environment all beside them.
These first week of school days. I feel confident but weak. Victim of communication break down. Heart breaker. Hazy in stature, still not quite sure why I am here and if this is the perfect environment for my scattered sensibilities.
Friday. 8 am. Trash compactor bangs around angrily outside as if struggling to digest bad news. I am sitting with my neck craned listening to these violent mechanical sounds thinking about land fills and how, or if, they differ from cemeteries. More people should leave flowers at land fills for the trash they left behind, especially if it could have been sorted and recycled. Then I drift into the open ocean, the colonies of plastic bags, like pirouetting jellyfish dancing gracefully under black moonlight, then the filter feeding animals inadvertently consume this floating human waste, from all parts of the world, these trash filled streets and their run off...
It is grave. These reflections are not kind.
Wish to rejoin wild animal kingdom and depart from human social customs, the silly emotional triumphs and failures that dictate our movements as society-dependent butterflies, flitting around from branch to leaf, hiding those colorful sparkles behind our ears, tragedy removed from the present and sent out into a vast, unknown future, where all death occurs, but not yet, just wait, wait, out there like at a bus stop, waiting for something unpredictable and drab, a creature cloaked in the night will come home to you with a carriage and a proposal, and depending on how you are dressed, if those splashes of make up are symmetrical and your face all comes together with those savage eyes, this creature might take you, but the decision to go is based on attached to trivial things, what about my television show, you ask in full denial and cowardice, there is no more of that for you now, you were wrong and every shallow, empty thought, is taken away at that moment for realization of reckoning, there is no need to believe in anything other than a pulsing black void when we die.
