A Rant in Tempo

11:00-11:20 am

Spin a globe and stop it with ritual death, at our longitude that velocity is east at around 700 miles per hour. Sweet jesus! Imagine that topspin if we were on a smaller planet. Indeed, our human species make the planet seem small because of how we have the power in numbers to reduce much of it to plastic debris piled up 500 feet, old television sets busted in and a closed off landfill where the antibodies to your dreams plan our demise. (Focus is too intent on music to keep the flow moving steadily, I will now attempt to write perfectly in tempo with the songs, regardless of meaning conveyed)

Here, in a purple sweater, meant to give away years ago, I felt hostile against my own kind The body parts all connected incorrectly. The hip bone attaches to the shoulder blades, cuts the teeth, sharpens those phalanges like a phalanx and then once my bones and soul are broken I will need a medical miracle, the western sciences to help reattach my mind to my body, ground me from the waist up and my legs will swerve on their own accord entirely. Bright orange water bottle to flush out toxins, erase the impact of harsher chemicals introduced to my body irregularly. Obsessed in that inebriated fixation on the orange sky, now grey, once was black with visible stars, fog rolls in over the eyes and I realize part of my personality disorder is a failure at acting well as a long distance love, that romance is diminished and I feel ashamed strangely for the geographical anomalies of our rendezvous (as if I caused the plates to collide!)  Remember the giving or the getting and the harrowing accounts of the one who feels resigned to disappointment and commiseration at the sound of a tiny bell in my blinded ears, forget the small details and crush me under the weight of a simple smile a collateral solution to achieve stretched out goals of enlightenment, a means to end all means, the teddy bear collective, floral garden and hanging vines, post cards from my inward travels, paint splattered t-shirts, old projects exposed as new because I painted the border.

I become an anxious beast in this extravagant captivity. With my tables and chairs, the solitude is immense and oppressive at times, though it inspires to break out through it like a flash flood carries debris down a deep canyon, wiping out all knee deep hikers, like our past selves. Inner demons keep making the mistake of surfacing when I need them hidden the most. Glue pock marked skin, razor burn, smooth skin, hypochondriac notions of suffering, these newfound nervous tics with no zen solution, zen degradation, eastern haughty philosophy, imprisoned pampered creatures in purses, here I miss my convictions to perform at a high level of consistent excellence, with otherworldly ambition and activity. That lazy life in the constant sun may have stained patches under my eyes where no light had prior pierced, causing some sort of motivational blindness, because those beautiful ideals seemed to distance themselves from me while there, without my realizing, until they fell into orbit around our earth and I only see them sometimes now.

Broke off at the right time. Now in the interim I feel stuck under the weight of responsibility. So easy it was to drift aimless in a sea of careless, reclusive escape addicts. To become one of them was simple, sit on the couch without talking much, contain the anger that built inside of me, by playing music, sweet grace, endless music… as they played video games with all the windows slammed shut on a mildly sunny day… would go outside for the first time to be driven to dinner (a rare thanks given to mother, her house a ten minute walk down the street – this walk I had very fond memories of. Then they would ask me to drive them and I’d tense up. sometimes refuse and skateboard myself there). The abundance of irrationally sunny days became a plague due to the crazy intense frequency and sweaty walks passed the guy who lived in his RV, deformed and abandoned all hope for salvation, only goes out at night, always a free parking spot around there, the trash filled streets, an entire city becomes a land fill and the dumbest still sparkle like the place is fabulous.

“For sound evolutionary reasons, most of us are not nearly as good at dwelling on good events as we are at analyzing bad events.” Martin Seligman


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