horoscope

it's early yet in the day (that is by the sun counter thousand of miles away: seems further if you count in kilometers) and i am feeling an odd sense of workdesk harmony, alone in an office, thinking about the lists made only silently in the darkest spaces of our souls, a story of things happened. nothing specific, just things, this memory, this book read, this piece of history excavated and dragged into the grim face of a fuck-you-anyway-and-still-go life, glad for what we've done, what i've done, so much of the time we're made of atoms that don't mesh, inner tribes that collide in turbulence only, come together like gang kids in back alleys: rumbles (fresh outsiders stories) and cakewalks through relationships, hardships, the dificult ones are only the quiet ones, and only just for so long before they're growing and we, like so many people are just trying to get by. know what i mean? so i'm sitting here wrapping the celophane of my mind around these things, the ones we remember in drunken slurs on roadsides while folded out the door for a great emptying out, the ones that we lock back there with padlocks of such incredulity that even nightmares outlive them and these are my favorites. i want to break them down, count them, build for them places in my life, place maps of life on the wall (my life), unburden the old ones i haven't bothered to forget, the ones i haven't bothered to remember either: the globe of life's travels, the wrong turns, the out of gasses, the have to lean the seat back moments: while writing this i keep imagining colorado valleys, beyond number, green and belonging not to one man or another, but to the cattle, the coyotes, the moutain lions, badgers, wandering blind drunks from town who need a coolness to lay down in (there, the wind is a blanket, the sun is a wake up call), and these are the places i'd like to keep my memories, in places that are without ownership, beyond being had or possesed: they are not mine, they are not yours, they are just piles of ransacked lives (at times), gathered specimens for how it is to be alive and how much moreso sometimes than others, events that changed lives without regaurd to whos life they changed or how or when, but only that it did and how fortunate we are to live in such a space that things like expereinces can be gathered at all (and even these thoughts, recorded: the black box of human expereience) and one day, ten thousand generations from now ewhen all things are dust or ash or the first and last of any race, any sepcies cannot be recalled, has passed beyond the scope of history lessons, a tiny black capsule with the sum of what we did, thought should have been there through can be unveiled, left on a doorstep, an orphan of epic proportions, blowing holes through any idea of any self anywhere: we are more than memories, but what we have, who we are, is seldom as beautiful, sullen: sitting here, building fragile edifaces to anything that happened anywhere, i am growing. inside: a matted posterboard with diagrams of things i should have said, but didn't mean- times i should have tried harder, but didn't want to- hopes i should have held high, but didn't bother: a coastal flow chart to the breaking of patterns, a spreadsheet diagram gathered from wind spurts and sea foam that tells each and every story of things i've built, broken, bent and hurried through. i am fascinated by the building of things: rough architecture made in estimations, towers, statues to one's own limited imagination, spoiled rotten, made rancid by time that keeps moving, turning over new days new leaves made partially of piecemeal dreams and half earned loves i keep thinking this is here, happening and bigger than sometimes ever. i can clone sheep on the inside of my eyelids, bear down glares on small children that can somehow be likened to ghosts: i'm wondering about transcendence, preferrance in any given thing, the capacity of a mind to expand (brain as muscle, heart as handicap) and life sometimes shaves points off your golf scores just for showing up, sometimes turns your old yearnings, broad knowledges and favorite colors into dim shades of a moment, or collection of moments somewhere in the backlog of things that happened, things i could have done differently if only i'd wanted to and a large part of me is head upturned, singing the praises of want and not wants, haves because of desires, loss because of lack, try because of inertia and what are we always waiting in line for? gathering silk purses to froget our sow's ear life: trying to make lemons out of lemonade. but what is wrong with lemons? why are we so frightened by the sight of them? why must they be made into anything at all, anything other than what they are?

i am choosing to keep lemons, and let lemonade do as it must.

i am choosing to spend time each day in the long valleys near colorado's aspen groves where i can lean back (if only in mental tirades) and flip through index cards that mark the beggining, end, and subtle fire that is who we are.

we are growing, if only by accident: and i am in love with the sight of it, in awe just here watching the excavations taking place, the unearthings of great longings and watching surges of lights and limits float by. i am a subtle sum of moments strung together by rapid moving pockets of energy: i am nothing if not the capacity to be as i choose, when i choose, however dark the sunshine turns. whatever you wanted to hear, this is the turning of the tides, as thrust on us by the gravity of the moon, the flow of rivers, from mouth to gateways, floods to quakes, quarks to stardust, ashes to ashes, and again.

2004-03-16 | 10:17 a.m.
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