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Brushing Teeth with Lightning in the Rain  
03:11pm 11/02/2016
 
 
The Masqued Man
“Only the dead can say something about the living… sometimes.”
-          Sonnevi

…and she is not just miserable, but proud of her misery.  She loves to complain, and loves nothing more than complaining about how much she complains.  She is excited by the noises, hints at chaos in her bones, like a cow who figures that the lush of duckweed down by the crick is the only murky way out of this pasture.  Her body.  Your body.  There’s no way out.  She returns to the body, and ever again, slowly despairing, ever averted.  Until gloomy, and extinguished

You must have a goal,” says Mann.  When you’re up you’re a cloud blown away and when you’re down you’re the dust blown away.  Without direction you’ll never be more than you are in the moment. THE MOMENT. No matter what you’re doing, if you’re only ever really involved with your own ideas and emotions it’s an equation that’s not going to work itself out.  It has to be more than just you.  Be quiet and take the picture.  Matsyasana, momma…


Subdue the mind.  Chain it with discipline.  Work, responsibility, a goal, the objective.  Getting up without dizziness in the decossating rays of morning sun.  Embrace the union, the holistic unanimity of all creation.  We don’t stand set apart from the wracked and wailing storms of creation, they are us.  You!  Me!  Artists don’t transcend the ever-multiplying dance, art does.  Art Garfunkle.


Disclaimer: Last night we became a decade.  I was destroyed. Torn apart into tiny forms which were then separated out, swallowed, expunged, exploded... The elation of freefall.  A remarkably coruscating swirl of birds, an abstract mandala.  Pass the hat.  First time I ever read the word quadrumvirate: 2/8/16. What killed us was rotting fruit.  Kierkegaard’s snuffbox. The window’s still open.  Our lungs breathe a long sex poem.  It’s Junyasar, dad…
Through tumblr-falling scrolls my appetite for platitudes erects, like a groangut Eiffel tower [erected in Paris, 1889, Las Vegas 1999]Eat your preferences.
Unmanifest karma.  I reach to count the missing pens and keys in my pocket.  “Like a memory counting its dead,” Says Cortazar.  Nothing is really happening, nothing is going to happen.  Nothing ever happens.  Your ego is Donald Rumsfeld.

Endure the wonder of survival or get stuck running red, doing bedtricks.  Enjoy the touches of flying generosity, or stop waiting for things to happen.  Warm your hands on the burning embers of our lost summerflower yellow dreams, or better yet be still on the sittingstones of permanent eternal glowering gonowhere. I’ll wager your mood juice that the connection in the walks through the Highgate back fields are stronger than those of the Hoskins computer lab.  Everything is open.  Grow your brain like the hillslumbs of Fakfak.

What a baffling profusion of things.  What a provincial, small-minded world view, with a smug belief that all is good in the world.  To say that we’re looking for answers in my mind is not to say that in my mind we’re looking for answers. "I'm not quite right at all... am I?" asked Bowie. What spiderweb wrongs and inasmuch rights.  What depths past the shallow shorelines of time.

One can be blinded by such illuminancies.  Sandy, upon arrival in Paris, “I don’t believe I’m in Paris.  Is this Paris?”





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