Drunken Frolic

I fear asking, but I think she flew over her handlebars last weekend. Her absence is a presence when I’m present. All is absence when I’m absent. Nerves twitch and send out the signal through the fingers to choreograph motion from those linked up muscles to the cool heartless steel of the computer keyboard. The medium for writing has changed drastically. I am not using a porcupine quill dipped in octopus ink. I am using grey faceless machinery with little clicks where swishes and drips once lived happily among the opium dens.

She has a puffy eyelid with deep looking bruises underneath. Looks like a painful healing process. Her name is the same as my tuesday-wednesday boss at the bookstore loading dock. I’ve heard it as a man’s first & last name yet never as a woman’s first. She rides her bike at least 15 miles every day to get here because she lives with her parents.

There are two phrases I most enjoy from Colonial American literature. One is when a woman, in supposed frailty and instability, faints and blacks out, it is called ‘a fit of phrenzy’ and then a decent godly man is supposed to lift her back up to her worth through him. the masochism I do not enjoy yet that phrase… to fall into a phrenzy. is lovely and old and interesting. The other phrase is to partake within a ‘drunken frolic’ which usually including rum and native peoples and dancing around a great open fire. These drunken frolics could last days and days. Sounds synonymous with a modern day ‘bender’ or ‘binge-drinking’ or ‘Sasquatch Music Festival at the gorge’. A gorgeous place to giggle and leap and regress to a long gone childhood with the help of curiosity-enhancing stimulants and courage uppers and sleep erasers and tooth rotters and glow in the dark baptisms with neon holy water and the eyes that shoot with sparks casually like we’ve know it all along. Yeah we have. I fall into the dissociative phrenzy of a drunken frolic rather often. Maybe writing is something like that.

The wildness of these original settlers when mixing peace pipe smokings, trade negotiations, predatory wolves prowling campsites, the sioux, the sky gods, the raging rivers and the birch bark canoes, the introduction of rum dismantled a culture and for what? For a little frolic. For a scene of young girls skipping through flowers.

Then a shipwreck of an opium cargo vessel called the Frolic at coyote’s salt well near caspar, between mendocino and fort bragg.

‘smoldering ashes lay where sailors had built their driftwood fire”

Last night I drove the company van countless miles to deliver branch stores their holiday decorations for upcoming flood (the magical hurricane) of the cold, materialistic American winter. Seattle started wintering the day the first leaf fell and has been steadily burrowing ever since. Now we must buy. So I must drive. Boxes to Tacoma. Set up a projection screen for my tired eyes to lay upon like a cushion. Wishing I didn’t have to disappoint my musical friends with my rampant indecisions. Hoping to resurface from my hollow platitudes and begin to commit again to something that feels right and real and productive and creative and artistic. I’m writing, sure, right this second, but it feels strangely unimportant. What shame! I need to spirit, the fire to singe my hair off my body like an olympic swimmer or a cancer patient, I need to run through the woods chased by bears. I dreamed of bears and inspired writings last night, I dreamed of tuba players and composers falling dead during the symphony performance and the musicians all improvising at once an immediate eulogy while the crowd sobs and fans their faces with ben franklin paper. The inventor of this culture, yet like Carwin, barely at fault for the way the foolish would react to the ideas put forth. Electric eels attached to the skulls for a shock to reduce headaches. Then electrodes, yay.

“And the words slide into the slots ordained by syntax, and glitter as with atmospheric dust with those impurities which we call meaning.” – Anthony Burgess

the search for words that glow alone
to carve out a shape in space in time
Flaubert would declaim his sentences to passersby
despite context, he itched with them
Interior decorating is a rock-hard science
compared to psychology practiced by amateurs

and other thoughts and things and motives. all erased in the tide

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