A story about invention and death and fiasco and false starts and foolish dreams and childish wonder and acoustic guitars and fluttering heartbeats and cold chills on the back of your neck and jesus and love and songs of abandon and cheap wine.
A note about smiles that smile until they hurt and the hard lump that forms in your throat when you know it is over it is done it won't cause you the pain of love or the taste of death or the knowledge that you are not even close to enough.
A film about a little boy who thought he was made of wood and strings and cigar boxes and superglue and scraps of memories and glimmers of light and chilled ice cubes making your mouth become numb.
A book about nothing and everything and something less than that and something more and this and that and sudden movements and cold dead bodies that look somehow so wrong in death so fake and made up and plastic and not people you love and not people that you remember you won't mind when they're gone you don't remember them they are gone and dust and you are left to carry on and act like life matters when you know it doesn't when you know that you live only to carry over carry through Cary Grant Hawkeye pierced and waiting for the day you can sleep.
A chapter about origins and endings and falls from grace and the day they caught you and the day you knew the truth and the day after that when you still went on and you wondered why how why you wondered when it would happen and the waiting was a dream and a nightmare and a sweet penance and a dread relief and a seductive drift into oblivion.
An index of things that made noise and things that made light and things that made light of noise and things that made noise of light and things that went bump and things that taste like chicken and things that don't.
A footnote from the beyond about never having enough time to stop and breath to stop and think to stop and say thanks for a thankless task to stop and stop and to count the seconds to let time slip by without filling every moment with something to stop waiting for the time of our lives to realize that it is here now while we yearn for it it is all around us while we angst and wonder and wait and then it is gone all too soon all too swiftly but can you replace it you wonder can you find it again or is this good enough what is good enough when everything is pale and grey and full of that tension that pulls your shoulder blades together that feeling in the pit of your stomach that tells you that you should run (our brains taking clues as to how we should feel from our bodies in such things as these).
An aside (like this? (not like that (or this one where we talk about the obvious run on sentences that fill this missive (no. (how about me I'm speaking in the first person because I can and I have plenty to whisper (not even close. (damn.)cry baby.) damn.) oh well thems is the breaks.) damn.) leave it be.) crap.) yup.) about the futility of plans and the celebration of things left to chance, planned to be left to chance, plotted and outlined and diagrammed and practiced and left to chance.
What would this book be titled?
10:37 the time of our lives, no 10:38.
Bricks of soul and the love of polka.
The smoke and the leaves and the orange moon glow and rubber bands... and post-it notes those are really romantic things.
The fog of lore the log of thor the frog of door the flog of more the dog of four the tog du jour the god of war.
Heavy.
or just...
Aren't you lucky they only take people.
No comments:
Post a Comment