Transitional Fossil

" The question isn't "who is going to let me"; it's "who is going to stop me".
Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Eye Rub

Sitting down to something that used to be an everydsay thing for me but for some reason is not. The cycle of my gift an empty, scary house. No lack of love but perhaps lack of passion and decisiveness about what i want to do. This is my spectre. This is my demon. My phantom alluding. Residing the periphery of my life vision.

The day is an airport of people. Stories and wishes, desires and dreams unspoken. Just a passing face. Mr. Powell, it didn't turn out the way I thought. I hope your daughter is well. Thanks for walking me to where i thought i wanted to be.

Truth's terms are never easy. Perception clouds the steps to-wards what i think i want. Nudging away voluminous landslides and positioned lampshades of what-if's is somewhat refreshing. The middle of winter i have engaged in spring cleaning. My books and personal baggage just shuffling out the door out of need and stale habit. Goddamn, the cold creek of unexcercised muscle povides a stiff pain to the warmth of continued movement.

These words seem hollow and nudging flow and joy. Exhaling to that word - joy. Pausing to realize its meaning. Reflecting and accepting its entrance into my life, though unaccustomed.

Shedding is prudent at this time. Stripping away the old and come into the new. My spiritual path has been moving away from the tangible toys which I clung to as a neophyte. Slow, the projected progression as i am sure i have mentioned many times before is to embrace the intangible.

To this end the connecting with the land, watching the sun rise early, expressing admiration and thankfulness for all that I have been given.

The words flow so smoothly in all forms of altered states. Whilst the ignorance of those who think a car has to be repainted because of a ding keep their place where it's supposed to be. Again I was told....told that cunning does not equal intelligence. I remain at one end fo the balance at this point. I have no wish to cheat my destiny but to do the wrong thing that takes a little longer and disappoint the expectation.

Ethics associated with stealing play ping pong against the steal trap of my conscience, flickering shadows of self-imposed punishment. I am the merchant of human suffering. Listening to tales of alluded incest and people bearing false witness on behalf of a bruise ego. A mistaken masturbation and contemplating the cutting of others. Pissing in the sink and the deliberate delusion of monetary disciples. This is my place yet, the robes beholden to such an office are not always recognized. My gods are the guardians of the Door and the crossroads. Yet, despite this clear direction I still do not understand and resign myself to the the Witness and the Observer. It is not sad, it is not vendictive. It just is.

Dancing candle and cable-modem light excite my alcohol soaked brain into thinking that the world has finally decided to match my brain's pace and the attainment factor's level of importance, accomplisment. God I feel ravinous for axccomplishment and impotent of a simple spitball. These are a few of my favorite things.


I'm a Man by Bo Diddley
Serenity by Godsmack
Under Heaven's Skies by Collective Soul
Sweet Mary by The Bereznack Brother's Band (3B)
Let It Be by The Beatles
A Sorta Fairytale by Tori Amos
Hey Jupiter by Tori Amos


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