Some New Reprise in Respite
I’ve been avoiding this moment all my bloated life. Right now, I feel that uncomfortable combination of sweaty, sticky skin that covers my entire swampy body from too much caffeine that I keep injecting to the lack of sleep from yet another not so secret last minute travel breakdown palace set piece that has become my carousel of personal hell and history thus far.
I’m at an airport. It could be anywhere. I can smell myself and have nothing to change into or money to help me change out of my storyline, and yet, I finally feel randomly ready to live what I’ve always known was coming. The beginning of the ending of something I felt only I’ve understood for so, so… too lonely and long of a journey to ever actually get out of. I have been a stubborn prisoner spitting at my prison guards since I came blaring out into this mystic pizza parlor full of yawns. I knew (or know?) I am supposed to write, and yet, I’ve gotten so angry with it, I have refused to for almost two decades now. NO! I want to live my silly, sad and ever sweaty human experience. Indeed, I jumped on the roller coaster ride and started climbing the seat from my unstoppable pursuer — kismet. Good old Kissy I’ll call him.
I selfishly, and ever knowingly, ran from this avalanche of energy and visions and screaming madness that has forever surrounding me. The only way I feel I can properly describe it is if I go between fact and fiction for the purposes of what ahead for you to read and digest. When it gets too extreme, and believe me, it will get impossibly insane, know that it is my way to hyperbolize the interpretations of my history the only way I know how to. I guess I’m asking, maybe don’t believe the hype in the edges of my story, but absorb the meanings in-between, as I am sure we all do unconsciously anyway in every interaction and morsel of information to come across us. Just know, I’m a damaged engine trying to explain being squeezed through dimensions to a broken mirror hoping you’ll catch the light when I open my free jazz components under the hood.
I don’t know if it’s that I finally internalized and accepted I have missed every personal and professional opportunity enough that all boats have left this island and I’m ready to eat the last coconuts before wading into the water before the bubbles stop, or that with some sort of effortless ease, the silent peck of Kissy on my forehead just this very day, has softened me to feel, I am home. Not only did I not venture out into all those human hurting adventures, I’m still on my doormat and have just picked up the proverbial newspaper on my doorstep, coffee in hand and ready to come back inside to have a comfy respite of reflection on my burnt orange sofa, while my two cats dart around playing hockey with a fallen bottle cap in my kitchen.
I think I needed those, oh four decades or so, to play in that playpen of life. God it was embarrassing. Is embarrassing? Forever and ever etched in as the things I DID and can never go back and change. OH GOD NO!! (insert mechanical laughter to myself). Exposing yourself, to yourself, while others watch.. Gross. I don’t know any better and I’m in the middle of always being a fucked up, way off course, ill creature that has no idea when I should stop peeling apart at the seams for the sheer endurance and misery, oh yes, the addictive misery of it all.
But yes, I do feel it very clearly now. It’s coming up on me as I know I have never left. The transcendental object at the end of time. It’s said hello to me during the time of my first near death experience and my first stuck near living in this underworld of minds that continues to play on loop for all of us. It’s time to pick apart all the materials and leave them here for you to pick up and do what you will with them. Thank goodness. I’m tired of carrying weightless nothing that is interdimensional infinite wisdom that really has nothing and whatever to do with what I’m going through or have to say.
My flight back home is here. After a week of vomiting, redlining my bank account out a thousand dollars, running around on new streets in a clumsy neediness of validation and filling my noise hole with more and more and more and more until I ooze this slick sweat all over my skinsuit like so many times before it’s like pressing repeat on the same warped James Holden track.
I’ve had the number, or better described as the object of 83 bothering me since I’ve ever been a being. I’m finally ready to tell that story. Whatever that is ahead, I’m sure it will be counted as something. That’s all I can promise.