i've not written as i

i've not written as i have too much to write. The mountain overwhelms me. grabs at my jugular and shakes me about. found myself listening to jawbreaker's first full length record yesterday and remembering my late teens. Remembering what an amazing record that was. remembering why i have that tattoo on my arm.

and with wings spread we remain on the ground. A flurry of flustered flakes falling from frenetic skies. Mine eyes have seen little or too much or maybe just the perfect amount. I don't feel like an oak tree today. nor a pine. i feel like driftwood. damp and wet and muddied with the agelessness of water. the timelessness of forever and the bloodiness and happiness of life. sad things. the pains of the heart so metallic and sour. oh what is it that i do? who is it that i am? I am here and you are here and we are here. and now i shall consult a book for the perfect wisdom. I created this absurd little thing i do on my friends' birthdays.....i call them, grab a book from my bookshelves, and read to them a short passage in the hopes that it will somehow be poingnant. or something. so here, as i feel useless, i shall grab Tom Robbins....maybe he can help.

"Timbuktu. The last pure place. Isolation being the mother of all purity. All men are jealous of Timbuktu because Timbuktu is removed from men, it's the wholeness men have fractured, the sacred extreme they've traded away. Like Hell, like Heaven, Timbuktu is a place in the brain, a place whose existence may often be doubted but never dismissed. A constellation by which the imagination can navigate, the joker that haunts the map-makers deck"

sleep well children.

Posted by at September 28, 2002 09:20 PM

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