I
Will Be Back Some Time AgoSince I'm increasingly unable to appreciate the social opportunities offered me by the physical presence and three-way visitations (you know, hide in a crowd type thing), I had better make up for it by using the postal service. Like that advert... "I just wanted to say I love you," but then he gets on the phone or stares her in the face and turns red, gulps really hard, and then runs off down the stairs to go find his pink stationary where everything is safe and easy, and writes it off in no time at all. Long distance love affairs that break down with contact.
The newest pop-psy philosophy of love seems to be that "space breeds togetherness." This is perhaps a rather pleasant paradox. Maybe the only thing to do if you start crawling up and down each other's butts with being "not together" but in the same room. And then if me and my guy survive all the things we have to deal with this year, we will be strong enough to get through most stuff (she thought to herself one lazy afternoon when the hazy afterglow on the cornfields looked particularly appealing).
In a way (though you might miss it) it's a good thing to be outside of this town, which, though magical, is very limited in its potential for novel experiences. Maybe, though, this is only my opinion, because I've never been in one place for longer than a couple years, and this is four years in this little town by the sea of "to be or not to be." I'm having a dilemma (kind-of) problem figuring out what to do in my spare time off that does not involve drink or drugs. The possibilities seem particularly few in number. There is always ART, but after days of work and studiousness, one hardly feels inclined to further seclude oneself with god flowing through the hand and drippy colors fleeing from the paintbrush bristles.
So, locked in the existential principle of mad minds shut up behind translucent vulnerable skins and juxtaposed with the hippy-love principle of all-together connectedness with the fibers of love and common experience, what is a poor seedless grape supposed to do? I just kind of stare at the mountain watching the sunset with effervescent streaky fire and listen to the schizophrenic whispers of god or my latest version of reality playing over and over again in the voids between me and my nearest loved ones and DROOL.
Later, I might scratch it out on a little white tablet like this one and feed my formulas into the little computational brain which may or may not be working out "The Answer" at any given moment, even though I know full well already that there is no answer, that the question could not be formed, hardly utterable even in hindsight.
I am discovering the wellsprings of health and joy in myself such that within minutes of thinking such thoughts, I might be able to declare myself "happy." But I couldn't tell you why or how or because of what, because all around me the externals are in chaos, in ruins. I have a feeling it is god moving. Or the Earth...
Maybe all of this is just one of those spontaneous moments of mental combustion which landed on a page addressed to you. That's the thing, my head thinks that you'll bitterly dismiss it all as a product of befuddlement under the influence of my latest romantic love. Which would be silly. But I can only say that though the love was in the soil, it was the sun that made the flower bloom. You know, ancient Chinese proverb. Like the dawn has been coming in strange ways, aha! Ha! Ha! Sun meets ready bud and it blooms.
"What nonsense," says the pinpoint persona, the sluggish dragona, the wilted begonia. So, shall we turn away from all this talk with our fine feathered friend and pass the peace pipe or the piss pot round the circles in our minds, or will we just shut our eyes and pass out? I think we could turn to talk about fish and chips and the Green Party (stuffed peppers cook best at 425 degrees) . . .
I'm still watching the news and am determined to be on the edge of the wave of worldwide changes once I'm free of all the bullshit. That could take a while. Until then, please send me messages in bottles, silk-lined mental cages to unlock, empty drawers to empty out, and anything else your mind or heart has to offer. I will be back some time ago (or so the story goes).