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I don't care about sport. The heave and ho of a muscular arm hefting balls thru hoops, across fields, through barriers, is as bright a delight as a dog in heat vomiting gravy train under a full moon in Idaho. Could be interesting, but it usually isn't. Could be crammed full of radioactive curiosity, but when the moon dims and the dog dies, we see the channels are controlled by a malicious, alien power with ulterior motives. I like to imagine football on Saturn where no one can breathe and the quarterback is a pillar of hydrogen and methane vapors.
We feel what we can love in our wan consciousness, take from its matter the offal that channels what matters of the mind may devolve in our winding down. We are conscripted by our framework wherein we paint ourselves according to our wits that sputter and fumble in the dust with ants and the fond insects we fear. Such is the declaiming I mind, as I finger the path to the end of my begetting. So I go as I go, tripping off extensions of belief that punctures this globe of ours, this tiny bubble, wherein we fuck and feed.
Sky widens. Earth shrinks. Path takes a new route. Heart divides itself for the fork in the road. I keep my meat separate from the peas. My eyes rivet on the manner in which the peas and meat are served. The roads will end. I feel it. Having the chance to eat is good. I'm blessed. Starvation will come when the time is right. I need to prepare for that. Keeping track of the meals is necessary. I don't want to be taken by surprise. My right headlamp is burned out. Engine is overheating. I keep to the road.
I sit on my bed, and I can't see my feet. They hide. I look down. My body is sloping away from itself. Earth is pulling it down ever deeper as time moves forward. Something inside me is moving backward. I watch, but the watching belies the eyes ability to see. There is nothing to see. Seeing is skewed. A joke. The joke is on me. I find it amusing that I can't get a read on why I need to stay. I don't want to stay. Staying grants nothing. I'm not here for nothing. I'm waiting for the punchline.
I could've done something. The opportunity made itself clear. I could see it. There was no not-seeing it. I was considered ready for the move. Something told me I wasn't ready. I didn't heed that feeling as well as I should. Things went south almost immediately, but I didn't have the wherewithal to act on it. I did otherwise, and I almost fell too far. I've fallen far before, but not this far. It woke me up. I knew I was in need of waking up. The dream had gone on too long. It was ripening into a nightmare.
You get the feeling of the feeling you feel in the back of everything before it all comes down to the degree of how far or how near you are to finding or losing. It's one or the other. No middle ground. No fence. Considering what's at stake, you must admit to a kind of fear lurking behind your mind, behind the intent to make a decision. No matter what, the decision must be made, will be made. The outcome will take care of itself. You'll be on its back. It'll ride you hard. It ride you into a question.
It's in the center of yourself. It grows by itself for itself; it grows how it will, taking its time to make itself known. Time will pass into forgetting. It will take you by surprise. It may please. It may horrify. Call it a jack-in-the-box. It was designed to catch you by surprise. That's the fun of it. Many don't jibe with this kind of fun. I do. I'm in a special position. I have a unique vantage point. I can see very clearly. I know what's up, but living in the center can be very lonely.
If it comes as it comes, with thoughts preceeding, I follow as I do in my head, as I've always done from the womb to the kitchen where I cook myself to feed myself my own heart, that I might find it beating in my mouth, it's up to me, as I feed myself feeding who I am in the seeing, such a crass chaos that presumes order in a blithe fashion when all the thoughts combine to follow in order of the kamakazi spirit, to do it or die, and die by doing it, stretching mind from the end.
How do you break it down to fund a reason for its reality, find the core of its begetting, to become as it is, as it will be, reckoning how it was for the record, be it as it may, nothing but the unscrewing of its life as a corkscrew, winding down, winding up, keeping the code secure, being who we are, the mystical thread of what we are? Such is the mystery we fumble over, looking for the guilty deity that messed it all up, primping the priests who pretend at knowing but know exactly as little as us.
Roll it up and do it, as if your life didn't depend on it. Roll it up and see to the work, the sweat, the cost of it, how you make it seem so important, so vital, even as it was, as it is, as it will be, invisible to everyone. The dressings you apply, the facades you build carry the stamp of its putative importance, but the real factoring cables it to itself and to its necessity that everyone misses, everyone ignores, if you just look, really look, you can see it, feel it. It's inside you, inside everything.
It could be something very tasty. It could be something deadly. The choice is yours, always yours. If you rescind this choice, what comes is of a quantity not meant as something viable in the physical world, but commensurate with the unseen, which is a lot of fun, though deadly, like a real video game, monsters and fairies, all delicate and indelicate fabrications, which come and go like pert ideas tucked between dreams. If you catch it you win. If you don't, the responsibility of the whole operation will fall on your dead grandmother, such is the price of fame.
If it's not the most important thing in the world to you, then it may as well be buried with the rest of your ideas that came and went like farts after a fatty pork steak with a side of fava beans. It will live on only in dreams and regret. You will siphon off the muscular juice of failure to feed the demon of depression. You will plant yourself in a bog of bad ideas. You will sink in the mire, dreaming of success. You will fade away and leave a mark of none for nothing won or lost.
It takes its toll from all the years bound in, all the pressure, the foul breath held, anger subsumed, years upon years beaming icy smiles, as if to greet the dawn afresh with a dark coil expanding, rage fettered down, arms pulled in, body sunken to the edge of its light, a black-hole soul, eyes peering from sunken orbs like a deep sea creature waiting for its prey, but what prey? Not knowing what or how or when, nor its form, all amorphous, everything going in, nothing going out, wrath kept locked inside, another soul of Mount St. Helens.
So, it's come to this again. Apparently you missed it again. You just keep missing it. The flyby never catches your eye or ear, or the weather is too rough inside, too many storms, too many tornadoes. Icy winds biting in. How can anyone pay attention to the TV show under these circumstances? He's clearly saying something. His mouth is moving, but so is the room, so are the walls. They want you to pay attention to them. Selfish fuckers. It's a never ending story, and we want an ending. Are you listening? Can we expect more of the same?
Bits of this, bits of that; that's a meal or a reason for world war. Such is the dropping off and the dropping away, a bit is left out, another bit is put in, the puzzle widens, hungers become unmanageable, and the bosses are too thin to be taken seriously. One bit here, one bit there. It begins to take form, form a picture. Something is beginning to make sense, while other things remain cryptic. You're the puzzle keeper. Aren't you? This is your game, your solopsism. The people live op die accordingly. Who wants that responsibility? Everyone. No one.
I'm having a funny meal. Keeps talking to me. The strangest things. Laughing so hard I can't eat. Then I'm crying too hard. A very sad meal. I want to end the world. What world? Too much to do, too hard. I just want to eat. It's getting out of control, won't let me eat. What question do I need to ask so it'll be quiet awhile so I can eat it? A mirror might a handy thing. Or not. I don't wear makeup; after this, I fear may have to. What would I look like as a Gila Monster?
Such sadness. Such gladness. Dancing up the feet with a howl on your fingertips. A merry-go-round. Icicles. Meteorites. Falling stars. Circle of shit. You had it once. It went away. No one can say how or when or why. It just went away. No warning. The bells of the morning still ring. They call people to the sunrise to enjoy the earthquake. A Tsunami has got your name on it. It'll find you. It'll take the pain away. Necessary. You might write a letter to clarify the next inevitability. You know what to do. It's almost doing itself.
Driven past the point, outside the reasoning place, beyond the limit of excess, where one can face their fears of going too far, being inside this idea of pushing the envelope off the envelope, from the place of being seen, in the place of here, where we all enjoy the mundane to extreme, transforming idea to reality, in this realm outside the comfort zone, there's only the eye for the eye; no eye else for its knowing. You can see this extremity. It has a location only the singular can ascertain. Imagination is the key. The eye inside the eye.
The body must be cleansed. Impurities must be devoured by the eye. In the eye of the eye all is seen for what it is, and by what it is, the eye is fed. We are nourished, all of us here, by what is seen, truly seen, and in this seeing, the fire of the eye devours it. Such a simple thing, a pure thing. We are made pure by this seeing, by the fire of the seeing. I am awed by my ignorance over the years, having missed it. But now I know. Now I see. I am purified.
It is the fire that tantalizes me. I am drawn into it. Each day. Each night. In my solitude, I am drawn in, and I see. I feel it. It becomes me. The tongues carouse me, caress me. They lick me. They sear me with their fiery wetness. I am lost in their blaze. The light reaches inside me. It brings me out. I ride its waves. I take others along. I let them see. I draw them in, as I was drawn in, and they become me. I become them. There is no difference in the fire. We belong.
You see each pebble. They form a pattern. It's growing. This delights you. It started with you, only you. You laid the pebbles down, one after the other. You took the initiative. You made the first gesture, the seminal gesture. You planted the seed, the first pebble. Now, it's come alive. It lays its own pebbles. You are surrounded. You rear back. You view the growing landscape. It's yours. You created it. You know this. It looks back at you. It knows a secret. You don't know it. It will be revealed, though. You don't own it. It owns you.
There's this fierce trepidation. It comes from a place I cannot name. It has no name. I have to pretend to give it a name, so I can place it, even though it exists in a place without a place without a name. I am bound by names. This is my house. I had to build it for safekeeping, so they say. It's a house of mirages. I keep for its namesake, nothing else, for it is nothing else. In another untouchable region lives a thing that drives me to find it. It's a game. What else could it be?
It's all about waiting, but waiting for what? That's a personal thing. Each to their own. I'm waiting for something to happen. I could name it, but I won't. Too dangerous. I must wait, and I will. I understand the stakes. It'll happen. It's only a matter of time. Time, that commodity we all take so much for granted. Time. The invisible foe. I wonder who considers time a friend or ally? That be an interesting statistic. But why bother? Time will more than tell. Time will carry the mission out. It will give me what I want. I'll wait.
Far be it from me to complain. I've come too far. I am in the right position. I'm placed correctly. I can feel that. The TV doesn't rule, nor do the chapters of my ragtag mind. Its plates no longer shift. They are steady. What moves is everything else. All of my life I've waited to be in this position. Do I have enough time, though, to make it happen? Can I figure this all out? Can't bother. Waste of time. Oh Yeah? The more I try to ignore it, the more it comes crashing in to boggle me. Time.
There lives a light. It came to me. I wasn't expecting. I expected everything else. I was given a gift. I can't explain it. One day I was alone, a lone agent; this is what I thought to be my lot for life, and I accepted it. Then she came, and everything exploded. Can there be a good explosion? Yes. My life came undone in the ways that a life can be undone to repair. I put myself on the table and closed my eyes. The light did the work. The light, her light, her amazing light. It resurrected me.
An inveigling game, yes? One move, another move, counter move. They play off each other. The mood of play determines the outcome, but is there a winner, a loser? No. This is not that kind of game. It has something else, and that something else is coveted above all else. It sees all of us in the dust. It has eyes unlike our own that are bound to shade and light, mere chiaroscuro. To see what there is to see above all seeing cannot be summed, qualified or quantified. It is not a numbered thing. All numbers bow to it.
Oh, it's falling to the end again, to the end of itself. Can you feel it? It feels itself. It feels this end, and it fears it. It loves it. It is it. Around and round, the cycles perambulate. It's a lovely thing to fall asleep to. It has a soothing rhythm. A fearful rhythm too. We are asleep and awake at once. Feels like a dream, doesn't it. Perhaps it is. I watch from afar. I watch close by. I am between. I am at the end. I am at the beginning. It's a puzzling thing, I admit, yes.
The people come. Their faces become real. I see them before their faces. Faces make them seem less than. I desire more than. It the compromise that drives my ego to its end; its beginning is a sore I cannot close. Naming it, opened it. Closing it is another matter. It takes withdrawal. The pain opens my eyes, opens a new kind of hunger. In a stillness that's savage, I eat the ego for its fat, for the energy to climb above its lies. Sated and serene, ready for the trial, I bid the challenger to the arena that's me.
We seek things that feel impervious to attack in our private places where nothing can intrude. We devise means to protect these things which need no protection. We fret over these means. We cater to their weaknesses. We see the enemy. It's everywhere. Inside us. Outside us. The things we have, things that are indomitable within us, wait for us to attend to them, but we ignore this. We run past them. We ignore their calling. We see only illusions taken for reality. Our life sinks in a mire of paranoia. The walls get higher, thicker. The calling gets weaker.
She's high in the sky. A wide ocean sprawls below. She is immersed in the night. She shines. I see this beacon. No one else does. We have this light. It's not for sale or barter. It's not for real for anyone but us. So call me crazy. I don't care. I have found this light. She has given it to me. I am found. I was lost. I can't explain how this light gives me life. It just does. I am in this ocean that buoys her up, in the sky that surrounds her. She is holding me now.
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