The rain is back. I’m trying to run away from all the baggage of feeling intentional or compelled to do something, and instead just focus on drifting and streaking across the page like rain is wont to do. All the things that go on, everything that moves across the panes of the world lately. The past is always gone going and eternalized in these calcium bones, dancing in lamplight while I refuse to buy my curtains. The trees that squeak and moan beyond the dark fields and the gopher holes, the raccoons flitting in and out the makeshift barricades I’ve assembled in our serial-killer looking shed. Raton laveurs. The neverending battle against the one idealistic mouse who decided to come in from the cold, curl up long in the warm heated room beneath natalies desk, dreaming of ice teas and skittles, the easy life. Annabelle the cat pulled him back to reality with five stretched claws, ripped him out by the holes of his forearms, natalie horrified, the house whirling and whooshing with horror, all our cats pounding in their skins with instinct and bloodlust. This is a world outside of roads and outside of electric lights, we are just a part of the treeline, the evercreeping sleek skein of weed and poison oak. I am measuring my life in the empty mugs and glasses that line my desk.
Everything is that same familiar silt of coffee and sugar muck, wine and ibuprofen, flowered weeds in makeshift vases and scented candles and thousands of worn down nubs on the sharpies that delineate my soft grasp of art. All of the well intentioned dictionaries are lying around my desk, hoping that I’ll get back to them, learn learn learn learn and grow. I’m always thinking that so close to me are the lines towards my future, literally the keys to next countries
i will flit, there has to be the spanish above and beyond all, just the justice of the world alone demands it, italian for my sentimental heart, arabic for the calligraphic understanding of fireside storytelling and some phantom of white savior complex knitting itself into a narrative of altruism. There is to be no advancement without communication and only the suits are learning the other languages, those spooks. They sit there paranoid searching for insults and plots and jealousy all the time vigilant. What a lie! French, I remember the progression. There was never a motivation like hoping to yell at those perpetuating injustice, the ambivalent drunks who tried to piss on our homeless asses furtive in sleeping bags beneath the bridged steps of the cite universitaire, the xenophobic landlords unwilling to sit through our grammatical uncertainties, the dumbfuck americans who we wished to be delineated from, we’d never again speak english in public.
The pause, the colossal pause, the rupture. We live an interactive life from moment to moment, count courting our impatient heartbeats in milliseconds and melatonin, overstimulated, oversaturated, waterlogged, surveilled. We are drunk drones dreaming of a freedom we imagine ourselves to have, we gawk. We are rubber lipped and lascivious, longing for a thing we don’t understand, a crystalline thing we attempt to anesthetize and market and purchase and pin down, label, stamp, dust, hedge, weed, wed. Yes! Ah, the luck of this civilization with ladies. With the gypsy dance, with the entire peripheral idea of transgressions at the edges of culture and of the civilization, we’ve mucked the waters to the point of having only melancholic, morose men with booze and depressants, sitting in florescent blue and pink light watching the young tadpoles in their thongs betray all their childhood dreams of horses and chant and slow sensual sway, now its just this operation, a push for a twenty, hair gel, madonna, lysol, floor wax, denim and fur, pearls and feathers, stereotype and sterility. Play acting plasticity.
Breakcrumbs lead back to the river
Everything leads to the river
The river beckons