?

Log in

 
 
23 January 2016 @ 10:31 am
twenty-three skidoo  
one matter does not connect to the next. there are pitfalls and potholes. no one person has all the answers. not every person ever combined has all the answers, either. some things do not have answers, not even one answer, not even a percentage of an answer, no answers at all, though we’d prefer not to talk about that. can you survive in that world? many of us cannot. please keep trying, regardless: you are being graded on effort, not refined technique. it's the way of it, when you're always manipulating yourself from behind a curtain. i think.

so instead, we make our own answers, or a initially reasonable proximity thereof. we pretend we have answers. sometimes it's enough. i think. we post self-satisfied quotes by authors we’ve never read on social networking sites and speak with authority as to how strangers can easily solve problems we’ve never even remotely had ourselves. or problems that we have had ourselves. problems that we’ve had ourselves exactly. problems that we still have ourselves, in fact. problems that we’ve never been able to belch a halfway workable answer for, even as the snow rises up over our heads, even as the walls start crumbling in.

“When you long with all your heart for someone to love you, a madness grows there that shakes all sense from the trees and the water and the earth. And nothing lives for you, except the long deep bitter want. And this is what everyone feels from birth to death.”
                                                                          –Denton Welch, Journals, 1944

that’s not from a social networking site and i’ve read a lot more by the author than that one quote, however that one quote lit a fire under me to find a copy of his collected journals as quickly as i could. every time i read it, it tears me in half. every time i read it, i’m that much closer to death. i think.

looking out over the sea of solaris. into that sky of vaporized honey.

what’s in a name? we name ourselves over anew again but we do not name ourselves really. we take on the names other people give us. we take them on like weights, like shackles, like broken constraints rubbing the wrong way. holy names, profane names, each and every muted to the mundane. names of loss and certainty. names we cannot make for ourselves but that's how we live as we do: pretending we can take a name and make it our own just as sure as we can buy a dress at the store and pay to have it fit to us perfectly, all the creases falling in all the right ways, all the crests and falls, all the heavens in alignment.

where are you, you want to know. where are you? in a dream? fine. let’s call that a dream.

where did i go, you want to know, but weren't you the one who let me fall through the cracks?

tears in the sea of solaris.

i don't mean like, i don't mean how, it isn't like you left me to die but then again, who could say. you didn't write back. i don't care. i can't care. i mean, i'm drowning in it, but i don't care. i can't care. where are you, i need to know. where did you go? i never wanted to fall through the cracks and yet here we are. crack fallen. mystified and dissolving. something we swim, something we remember, something that never really went away. at least not for me. so there's that. the wind shrieks right through that. nine inches in six hours. the wind blows. the snow drifts. the snowdrifts rear up. my car vanishes, not so much as a dove or a flame to conceal the working hand.

one last chance to get everything you need to get out of your motor vehicle, a friend outside DC helpfully suggested hours after i’d stopped checking facebook. remember LED screens can freeze, he warns, and i think about that, as in: oh well, as in what are you going to do, my midwestern perspective and catholic upbringing surfacing, as they do, in stoic resignation. offer it up for the souls in purgatory, my grandmother used to say, my mother joked as we sat in a hospice room while my grandmother's breath kept turning five days out from her doctor's most optimistic estimate. but then, maybe it will be miraculous. sometimes things are miraculous, or so i've heard. perhaps my friend's warning will serve to guide that miracle into form. i could look at it like that. how else am i going to look at it? it’s not like i didn’t have fair warning. in a dream? fine. let’s call that a dream.

vaporized tears in the sky above solaris.

the perfect match for a stray can only be another stray, i keyed into my android a few months back. stray to my stray, or not. maybe you were never a stray. maybe my read was all wrong. every gray hair on my head, every scar up my ankle. i'm sorry that i'm like this. i wanted to be a positive person, an optimistic person, a competent person, a person who was fun at parties and could think of entertaining things to do with her friends, but i'm not. i’m someone else. i’m someone other than that. i think interesting thoughts, i've got interesting thoughts to spare, but i won't share them, at least not until you've earned it, or so i'd like to think. what was it that they used to say about me? that's right: get out while the getting is good.

who am i? who do you think? in a dream? fine. let's call that a dream.
 
 
music: stars of the lid - mulholland
 
 
 
(Anonymous) on January 24th, 2016 02:49 am (UTC)
That's beautiful but with a cost
like that dull ache as you hunch
your back in that cold wind
selva oscura: [tarkovskiy] kissanonymousblack on January 24th, 2016 05:42 pm (UTC)
that. exactly. very costly, in many ways.