90 beats per minute

Fermenting the nutrients and taking in vitamins to supplement the exchange. This is what the body does without you, after chewing, swallowing. Knowing of histories of violent unsettlement, when what matters again is the idea of holding your forehead to your son’s as he chose Namibia to explore and having  a holy moment there in the airport and the flows of speculative capital happened outside of this because real human emotions cannot be bought and sold like stocks. It can be bought with marketing strategies at least temporarily, in a sense, tricked. One phenomenon is the strange new development of moving pallets with a splinted shin and feeling my heart lighting up inside my chest to the point I can’t sleep because I’m thinking of George Carlin and Richard Pryor having heart attacks and talking humorously about it although it could not possibly be a humorous experience to be involved in and that is why it is so funny from the outside because we are safe for now and this shit is real new raw experience shared with us…. not “fabricated to increase insecurity”…. moving away from that, feeling my heart leap around and warm to strange influences and shortness of breath, of other free associations…. I thought, “people die like this” and, horrified, ran off to Alaska to take in the air and settle the heartrate.

 

reminded of a dream of a dusty room filling up my lungs

the sheer amount of microscopic shit, of little pieces of lint or dust or other, sent up by my agitation of the bed caused me some sort of profound desire to address this and to say hello I see you, I understand exactly what you mean in this adjustable too-hot lamp and on this square balsa wood side table that belongs to anyone else and the closet full of objects of the same manner and exactly 7 different word documents opened up “to be rediscovered and rethought at a later time” I’m sick of being so dysfunctional in the world with the ticking lamp and the books all over the floor and my posture just terrible and the “adult life” coming up like a new chore when I first learned I had to wash my own laundry or when other people “needed” the washer so mom did them anyway and I felt like new fresh clothes just magically happened and my greater awakening is when the house is gone and I am also and they will sell it all out and I am responsible for what I leave behind. We are all responsible for what we leave behind. The galactic shit still flying around the cone of the creaking light reminded me of something I can’t quite tap into. Something important and forgotten and turned against myself with the pain of knowing somewhere inside but a huge deficit of emotion. It will take a weekend. Give me a weekend and lets see how this thing flies. There are so many possible distractions. (So much social. It is a distraction from these things. The insurances and assurances and closet spaces and crawl spaces and talking through something with another human being saying this is exactly like something I know and have experienced. I can feel your pain through my own pain and I can acknowledge that our pains are separate. Same with happiness, it is just less difficult to talk about.)

November 2

Without hesitation, he is concerned with where he will be tomorrow, where the rain will be, and mudslides, and making a way out there to get to a place that makes meditation on the heart rate easy. A serene lake, he thinks. Somewhere with reflective surfaces and distance. Somewhere with old trees to keep out of the rain. Rivers overflowing. Or flowing low or spitting out salmon, don’t remember what happens when you lose three seasons after intending “maybe August” and letting that go, letting the dream of backpacking the Olympics lost, making the music no one asked for and wondering, in this age of wonder, where and when it can all find outlet. Go out and make it to the ocean, lovely human, your body is not lost on you, it is waiting for you to make up your mind on how to fix what is tense, smart, spelled, and coming after you with the chemical make up of invisible threats or serotonin bombs, the fireworks when you are happy, sad duds, the rain picks up I can feel it in my spine and my 1st system edges toward and away from the sound of the guitar music and the old rain. Dry tones with open chord changes, as everything changes, “unbroken for one hundred years in a constantly changing world” and wondering what watch on what wrist can keep me locked away in some false resemblance of time spent hovering away from who you are, barely hiding the taste of the spirits (self-critique squeezing back in) “days are fine, nights are unbearable” and let me tell you about familiar feelings. I feel tired and sore with scratched and stabbed hands a weighted chest with some guilt spiral and some vicious words from a bereaved and November already I lost everything this year, it is all gone and from its absence, this new canvas, I can move away from hating imagining your body and settle back into the flowers, where the haunt is, the rain on feedback loop, the goings on in the night. Nothing makes sense. Let time pass and let yourself feel back inside the body you live in. No abstractions in that. Commit to the body you’ve been given. Its limitations and experiences and vaunt over the depressions with new experiencing conscious art racing heart tracing mountain yodel gallop wild horse kind of sound of the heart beat in the bath tub too small for that same body, the little pump staying regularly heated in the tension and letting itself fizzle down, spark up, and flash red lights to his submerged toes. I am watching this happen from above, as steam rising off a body picking out warm from one source and dispersing it into the room, but is it cold, and why have I acted on such little positive forethought, all a kind of rushed emotion, signifying nothing.

making arrangements

When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by  beard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)

I am awake and alive and feel okay.

Say often.

I am alive and okay. Awake.

Repeat.

I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.

Okay, now. Wake up.

Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.

Indentions

I filled up the gas tank of the old focus at the dusky Valero en route to the house I grew up in after a 10-8 shift at the flavored vodka factory (where factory means marketing engine, settled nerves, crazed expressions of self-worth, and eventual quiet where everyone in the board room meeting looks down at their hands or flickers their pencils until start blurring and looking rubbery). Lines in my head from Edward Abbey, although I must question some of his tasteless terminology, his ideas about the reason for wilderness, the immersion into the raw experience of life that every other (unpampered) creature must entertain for themselves to remain alive is an exhilarating reminder of why one has whims to remove oneself from the bubbling potions and screeching garbage trucks to move away and into the otherwise unknown beyond. Beyond.

The desire to be elsewhere found itself settled onto my heart at the gas station. The probably gas station where Mike bought me my first cigar, when I was sixteen and not supposed to do such things, but such cool older friends and kept it to myself later how young I will die because of the decisions I made in high school ( who said that, a camp counselor? ) no one said anything about that other than statistical data base computers, and the people who run them for the morgue, the health service, the hereditary alcoholic research group, the liver control board, the mash tank stopwatch kept under close watch, because profits, always because profits and never for consequences, because profits can be spent before consequences catch up.

I imagined the car and the gas pump in a different locality, a desert offshoot somewhere it was crucial and not just a dumb little chore. Somewhere the next gas had to be factored in for the drive, a kind of odometer of the sense, the feeling of lurching toward a new freedom from want, but always finding more want when getting there.

Drive the car its 275 miles before it is dead and leave it there for the vultures. What then? Well, pick up some quality boots before this time of crisis and slowly drain that stupid savings account, the one meant to be spent on music equipment and later travels. Drain now, what are you waiting for, winter is encroaching and removing the summer of its plans, it becomes a cold blur and something without sunrises or sunsets just a factory with indentions of being between the beams of conscious nightlessness and letting go of other inhibitions, in the sultry consumerism of a growing little city, the kind of love affair that lasts until He is done and let the capitalization mean everything possible to you, to you with your ego driven pesticide spraying on the beaches and shorelines of a beautiful estuary we all share, the sea stars, the humans, the sand fleas, and the herons, the great blue herons forced to search for a new rookery and the conservative anti-nature lobotomists who actively (frighteningly actively) believe in the removal of such “pests” for the benefit of condo views, uninterrupted housing developments, and flavored vodkas in the more to top on their bacon raffle tickets.

The title of this post refers to a Manchester Orchestra song of the same name. One that I heard on my way home and listened to three times in a row and this whole thing spun out of that experience and others. The base experience at $99 plus tax and the advanced experience, the one you get to take home, is an additional $49 plus tax. You need to fight the battles that matter to you personally and not get caught fighting against swine who will fight among themselves anyway.