Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Journal 30 - Free Willin' Cells

Was that the wind light in the remnants of
the bye-bye storm or the sound of the sheets
and the covers as she shifted positions in the
big bed – it’s all blurry to me as I stumble into
the bathroom, tripping over toddler stools in
the dark – life is what you make of it my friend.
(Silverado) The wind still nestles and nustles and
rubs elbows with the leaves in the spring trees –
brief cycles of memories of all the times the wind
in the trees meant something. Fill in the sordid
and topaz blanks of your own throat deteriorating
lives. It has been said (& quoted) that “you’ve been
dying since the day you were born.” It has a
certain ring to it. When is that real turning/
tipping point when the cells in your body stop
predominately growing but predominately wither
away, losing their moisture and drying up like
along mocked toyed-with snail, homeless in its
thirsty quest for a silver lining that is real and
meaningful. I sometimes (e.g., now) wonder if my
life is but a cardboard box of cheap wine –
popular among the sweet unrefined undisciplined
mediocre yet beautiful teary indisposable and won-
derfully unintellectual keepers of the light that
actually reflects a soul peaking out of its leathery
shell like an ancient bird in the Galapagos Islds.
The evolution of a nose – who knew it would
mean so much? Our cells are free if we are free –
but I repeat myself. they may be free but
apparently doesn’t mean bright. A pensieve would
be cool to have. Or a direction – velocity is
a bit overrated when it comes to human to
human interaction, or interface as the cold
scientific philosopher would have it. I swear at
times the wind sounds like some giant, or a
supernatural being, is breathing in through the
big gap in her front teeth in a gasping – slow
lugubrious gasping –furtive harbinger of not very
delightful phantasies to come – nightmares in
the chimes and the trees and the bruising of knees.


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