Saturday, September 18, 2004


last night we had a ball. two sides of my life came together for the first time. a friend of mine, who i have seen rise to the level of a small god, wished me well. i was consoled by a stranger who emerged and dissappeared into the dark behind the screen. two of my secrets became known to each other. there were red lights everywhere. people from different universes, danced the dances of one, to the music of the other. potions flew left and right. conversations broke and grew again from shattered parts. mad lovely children sat on a swing like a painting. people revealed that they had changed. the two worlds merged, then bickered, and were almost one by the end. i told only a few of where i am going, and that this party is also to tell me goodbye. i was held close by a man i thought a stranger, and i was held away by one i had imagined at the center of my life. things were confused, and made clear at the same time. i saw the dancer whose dance makes me yearn to become her, and was told in my ear not to wish for so little. the end, and we are driving home, and the city is a dark outline against the sky, and the palm trees, those never-ending palm trees, dot the spaces over, under and between the rooftops, like they were our excuse for stars.


in the desert i had a thought: maybe i DO need to see a psychiatrist. and i remember i went instantly into a rage: how unfair, i thought, that i should actually turn out to need "help"! how unfair that after all this time, after all this work on myself that i have done, that i should still need a professional to do that work for me! i don't even fully understand why this objection, which i know sounds quite peculiar and illogical, should have arisen in my head... and it wielded such a high level of anger... but even all that fury did not undo that foremost realization, that i may need an analyst after all...


limetown has had the effect on me which i had feared it would have, but it took a trip out of my skin to find that out. i knew, somewhere deep down, that i would have to fight back against Something about that town, which would threaten to take me as its own. it is a strange latentness; a strange languishing laziness that overcomes a person, makes the hometown a hole instead of but a single point upon earth's curvature. after travelling on my own across state lines and across several days, the world feels different; the distances between places, not so far. but after a couple of days in limetown, the rest of the world outside starts slowly to dissappear. to not make a difference or not really to be an option to inhabit; everywhere else seems just too terribly far away to go. i didn't want this to happen; it makes life frightening and unkind, and going anywhere feels like an unfair task to be asked to do. i wanted to clean myself of this feeling, i wanted to drive and drive and drive on forever. i didn't even want the fingers of limetown to come into my house, the private cell of my car, the same air i was breathing. i wanted the face of the earth to go on feeling broad and flat, and full of possible places and people to be. but sinking into limetown, i forget the feeling, and a dull grey horror of voyaging outside its boundaries starts to rise in me, like a kind of tart mold clinging to my every move and making every choice much harder. i don't know what it is about the place, that makes this happen. i don't know what it is about myself, that makes this happen. it makes me want to flee, it makes me want to run away this very moment, and find some way to live, some means of existance, wherein that feeling of endless opportunity remains with me, and doesn't expire like a hothouse flower kept in the basement.

across ocean--

this is the eve before the day when i am collected up to be taken over the sea to very Elsewhere than i have ever been, and i have no thoughts but that i don't know what to think. at this moment i have no anticipations, no powers of expectation, as to what to have in mind, of what to create in my mind, as part of the prior experience. my dear friend huggs me close and tells me, like an incantation; "have so much fun. have SO much fun!" and i tell him that i will, though i cannot at the moment muster any excitement, any demonstration of joy... it is a place i have wished all year to go, and now, like a maiden voyage, i will be going, like a trip before the trip almost, to teach my mind how to think of the place, perhaps... i will be gone two weeks.

Saturday, September 11, 2004


i have somewhat of a strong inclination to see the ocean. i had it since the time in the desert ended. i don't know whether that means to take a short trip to Champaigne Coast or whether it implied a many-day excursion to a certain place i know far north of here... between this place and a region with a different culture, called by me Lantern Cove... Lantern Cove is a colder place and people from Champainge Coast complain that there's not enough parking along its streets. People from LC and CC complain about each other alot and are almost always saying nasty things about each other's towns. I once drove from Champaigne Coast to Lantern Cove in one day; it took 8 hours and i didn't stop. one crosses through the regions of foxtown and Basketville as well as Floorheel on the way through this vast impenetrable valley of farms while one goes through. (reminder; all the names of places will be in code in this blog so i don't have to deal with people: "hey i was boredly searching the net under my name and i found your blog and now i know what you think about me" kind of mess, which has happened to me too often.) If one follows the coast between these two extremes, one passes through a different realm of towns, however. the scenic route casts one through beachy places, where i have found myself a number of times. i have come to dislike many of the people who live in the town i'm thinking of; i've found them impatient and intrusive, and i've had multiple bad experience with the locals on the same day, enough to make me really annoyed with the folks who live there. of course, it might be that i seem strange and city-like to them by now. which is strange; since i come from a place no bigger than the town they live in. how one's appearance is shaped without one's even noticing. how suprising when one day you wake up and one is responding to you as you would have responded to someone from a totally different location, not long ago... i don't know if i'm currently a city-person or a rural-person at this time... i feel a little in the twighlight zone between... Limetown is like that; not quite one and not quite the other, but when i'm in the city i feel a little rural, and when i'm in foxtown or the like, i feel like i'm in a very tiny place. nowhere feels quite normal or natural these days; everything feels either very large or very small. changing locations has this pendulum feel to it, of going from one extreme sort of something to the other. perhaps my desire for the sea has to do with that; perhaps i just want some sort of environment that's clean, like an empty open slate... or perhaps i have to just go there, in order to find out what it is... while my intense burning desire to fly of far away somewhere has been cooled for now, i still do have this strange craving to at least putter around for a while, especially since i have now discovered i can more or less live comfortably out of my car...


i have this strange feeling that if there was a novel written about my life right now, or this chapter of it, it would begin with the drive home from the desert. not the time in the desert itself, just the drive home and the aftermath. the world continued going on while i was gone but really, i was in a decided state of change. i am just recovering now, just becoming sort-of the one i ever was before... the insurance person... the art-person... just getting back to cooling off... the songs of the gods, while still there, are not so noisy in my head as when i first arrive... picking up the pieces has been a matter of just doing justice to all the remaining fires within my head, which that torch lit out there... very different, very many things going on; as many as were going on before but all a different matter now. and certain realms of my life will acknowledge that i was there and others will not, but all of them will have been altered for me, and i have no way of knowing yet which ones will register that change, and where my changing perspective will have gone unnoticed. is it like this every year? can every new yearly fire bring about such dramatic revelation? can a body undergo this annually and survive? of couse i am one who is very severely shifted and rather easilly so these days; that has been just the kind of year it has been, and i have actually been more than eager and ready at any moment, for a life-changing circumstance. i notice that the sense of urgency does not attack me now the same way it did before, though--- returning to the Company, i felt myself embraced by an imposition of panic, hectic messages that i "could have been doing that this whole time!" and that "people with what you have are making $XXX per year right now!" the Company is big on hurry, big on panic; it's how it runs, since it has such a loose structure otherwise, such a voluntary and do-it-yourself type of organization, that it must instill a sense of inadequacy and rushedness to make people go... but it had a lesser impact than it may have had; i have the feeling that "you need to do this" doesn't really mean today... or that something bad will happen if it isn't done soon, or that things will be bad somehow if they aren't done by a very short time from now, just because they say so... there's nothing that really urgently needs to be done, in the near future... just the things they tell me need haste, just because they want me to be more useful faster... but things can't be hurried: they don't know what they're dealing with with me. they have no idea. really, they have no idea who or what i am, but i don't honestly think they want to know, either. that's not what interests them about me...


i sit here tired, mentally and physically. i do not want to become fully re-engrained into this way of living, this way of life that was before the desert. many folks will tell me that is hopeless or futile; i get scolded and repremanded quite often for the comments i make in front of others which concern only my own life; they wind up taking it personally, some of them VERY personally, as though they have to retaliate, when i am just making some observation or comment on my life as it is or what i want for myself. they get into attack mode and stay there for hours or days or months sometimes, so i have learned to keep my comments to myself. but at this moment i feel i don't want to let the desert go, and i can feel thier criticisms over my shoulder already: saying that that sentiment is childish: that the wise thing would be to let that other-world go back to where it came from and to fully embrace this one i find myself in again. i really and truely believe, though, that the opposite is true at this moment. i really and truely think that it would be foolish to give up entirely, forget and throw aside, those things i thought and saw and came to know, while i was half a thousand miles from this place... where i saw a mob in white start dancing euphorically, spontaneously, from where they meditated on the white sand...


let me tell you something; i once had a dream in which i encountered a floating tree, hovering above the ground. and when i awoke i was fully inspired to write a story about trees suddenly breaking free of the ground and flying away, everywhere... only it didn't turn out to have a plot which i could find easilly, and so the unfinished creature is still resting in one of my folders, half-done and in notes... i was quite firey about it for a short while; sometimes fire exhausts me after a few days... and now it's a number of years since i started writing it, and i see it's 9-11-- which was the metaphorical significance, i thought, of the tree's flight, and i am remembering the story again, though i am no wiser as to how it ends. i get reminded every year around this time, of that story and that i haven't finished it. my mind is a strange forest.


i feel a little like i'm living in a forest. I feel crowded and with gargantuan entities on every side of me; they are in front and in back of me now-- they are comprised of megatropolis, deserts, companies, colonies, different industries and now different countries... each one standing huge, and demanding different things of me, all having their climaxes coming, either soon or far, and either now or later or in the past, demanding certain reverance, demanding certain sacrifice...


this long after leaving, i still am clinging to the little things i've let the desert leave on my outer life; the sand on my car, the polaroids in my purse, and even some of the bags ride around with me, as though the road trip still has not yet been completed. I look again at the pictures, physical in my purse and prone to its dust, and marvel that i actually was there. the photos look more and more alien as time goes by, as though of a movie set. no wonder we marveled every day at our surroundings, we inhabitants out there; it is like nothing we know, and yet we live it for a week, and yet still, even by its end, it remains, nothing we can imagine or see with our mind's eye, without it standing in front of us every morning. i look again and again at my few pictures, they're feeling fewer and fewer and more and more skimpy to the truth as time goes on, and i look back into them more and more seldomly... the older life is still changed; i can see it in the way things feel now-- unlike the former panic, the former noise-- the sun itself is changed, and with it, everything it casts as photon-shadows to the brain...

Friday, September 10, 2004


i walk around the world in the twilight of a former half, the shadow of a place left now in ruins in a different land, and words course through me like an endless river that has no source and will not cease. there is no cure, i have no one to tell, no telling will undo or help endure the ceaseless following-by me of the words that tell me on and on, the thoughts i've known to understand, and new ones that have entered in as guests of the old... as hostesses replace themselves with future hostesses, the dance removing on to center-down in other spaces, to resume the frolic, and pursue the laughter onwards, forthwards, hopeful for eternity somehow. i do not know how to handle such an onflow, no amount of writing can portray. after a week in solitude, i am full of raging tidal waves of thoughts, each step i take and upwards flood the new eruption, and no meaning can dismount the breaking blaze. Volcano-like it shrouds me like a curse, but holds me up above the regular Void surrounding all the rest of things, and gives the world a certain glow, unknown it seems by all except the Few-- myself and the others, whom i hope to know in time or teach to see, or make from scratch as sculptors make their Friends-- their Foes and enemies as well... there are days, and this is one of them, when all the thinking done between two points is unrecordable and lost into the Space between my brain and the other world, and it seems a monsterous injustice. Unjust that i am prone to such eruptions i cannot control, but also monsterous that they should be lost in such a petty way... but then, when i've the words in front of me, the chisel in my hand, only then to these things reappear-- as though, in being Lost to time, they reappear as other beings, elsewhere in the clay, and i am only the Watcher, living from outside, perceiving all the Wash go by, as no one does; as only the feeler of such a river can know. i have heard others speak of such discomforts, and they call it the writers' disease; and it has been banging on my door all this time, demanding to be let in. it is satisfied by nothing. not the grandest talent in the universe can overcome it, can give it final rest. only the death of the brain, or the flinging of the body fully into the resting place of the stars, can liberate it from this world, this void in which it has found itself, and screams and screams forever to be let free. there are those of us who are destined from the start to hear its screams; to be eternally the victims of its pain; the products of its own captivity in flesh and rock... the makings of this Place... it is no wonder that my only use, my one and only true desire for the Connection, for the Subscription to such websites as give me space to type-- is to have a way to talk and talk and talk-- unceasing, unending-- letting the monster free for just a moment-- letting him breathe... the net will see him, piece by piece--- or maybe it already knows him well... it's hard to say, for i have been more a translator than a researcher of his other translations... patience, i tell him... patience, and the world will be your oyster, as it is already, without you or the oyster knowing yet. i myself have been told the same thing and flown in rage... thus i can understand, his unceasing edge-- his yearning for the Now, for recognition, for the returning-grasp, by humans, to his reaching-out in sessions towards the sun.


after much thought, it has occurred to me that the better thoughts are best portrayed with patience at the hull when one is transferring them to clay-- the clay of words, that bend with winds unseen, that take the shape of minds yet to exist, yet to recall such feelings as are twisted here in lines made black, or white or otherwise, and twist' by centuries of stone-graved meaning, whispering thought to bone and likening birds to wit. i have learned more from the face of words, than from the work of sight done by the eyes alone-- the lonely, missing eyes, adrift in the lake of air we call this world, without a raft, without a stone to tie it to.


i've returned from a place far away in the desert, perhaps you can guess its name. if you cannot, suffice to say that i am changed, as it is changeful for the many who arrive there, from the outside to exist as others, different for a while. you never return the same way you arrived, from this place. we know this intimately, those of us who return year by year. and now here i am again and i find myself in limetown or its outskirts, trying to remember where i was before. i feel as though i learned alot, out there. september will see, and has already seen, a great many shifts, a great many undoings for me. but one thing that i remember now, learned in the dust, was that, to be a creator, one must necessarily be a destroyer. i stood beside a fellow who had built a car shaped like an aligator's mouth, and he intended to burn it completelly when the festivities where done, and a girl beside us was raving at its injustice; that such a remarkable accomplishment should be destroyed without a trace. and yet it somehow seemed logical to me, a perfectly fair ending, but i could not explain, not vocalize what i was seeing as the logic. yet now i know; if you did not destroy the creation, there would be no more creation... to create the next, you must destroy the first. in a way, i have always known this, and it has always made sense. but now i have seen it made of fire. materialized on the sand, in the stone of faces blazing to the night: iron laughter of the dancing death that sings as it is cast smoke-trail to the Lords who collect our dreams and cast them back at us again, in sleep, or stance, or stolen glance through air... Neither he nor i bothered to explain, and though she walked away still proclaiming that she couldn't understand, that it even made her angry to think the artist intended to remove his work from the world, after having taken such care to place it there, i think it needed no further words: the creator is already always the destroyer of the same... the creation of the future Things that Are, depends upon the End of those that Were... i will not be seeing that fellow again, not for a long while, or perhaps ever... it is not for this life... it is not for this life... the space in the creator's life is only so large... only so large...