Yes, it's poetry month, so I decided to post something somewhat poetical (in the theoretical sense) on the day taxes are due because it's not just about the money–-it's about. . .it's about. . . it's about. Oh whatever. Take a deep breath. Here we go.
So there's a patter in my head, a voice, a patter, always going too fast for me to put down the words too fast it's always ahead of me and I can't scrawl fast enough to put it all down for my hand to be in sync with my head but somewhere in me somewhere deep in the bowels of me there's a flow of words that will come out with such force like water gushing down a stream and turning into a river–- there there there is the flow in me.
We never had to struggle—we never had to starve crossing the oceans crawling across prairies we never had to struggled, to fight, it's all laid out for us, the future, the future will be grand and we won't have to struggle. Everything will come to us. We won't have to move.
So what do you do when there's nothing more to be done? What do you do? Nothing. Ahah! Nothing. Nothing to achieve–-all achieved. All stories—variations on stories, told retold rewritten revisited. Nothing. Why do anything? Money. Power. Then what? Then what? Love. Passion. Glory. So what. Humor. A good laugh. Or maybe just maybe feel nothing–-and thus we're not better than the ones who came before. Why? Why better? Why? Can't we just be?
But to be. To be and not to express the being. To not express the state of being–-impossible. Why? Why is this expression necessary? What could be achieved? No. None. No achievement. No great flag planting. No triumphant trophies hoisted overhead. That's it. The being and the expression. That's it. Saying I am me and I sit here and I am cold and I can't write as fast as my head. My brain goes too fast for the pen. What to be done then? Capture as much as you can–-hold it in the pen, let it go on the stage, keep putting words on the page, and finding the words in the pen. The hand might cramp but it will be all right. Just keep going with the pen. In the pen is magic, in the pen is freedom, the testament of the moment, for in the moment is being.
And what is the vision, what does the pen see that isn't there? What do I see in the empty room in front of me? What is conjured? What is faked? What place? Real or fake? Who, who beside me, who else is there?
Why? Why do this? Not that. This. Is this writing? Is that? Who's to say? I say. I say it all. In the future. No now. Now it's all going down. All of it. Every part. Where do I start? Then to keep moving–-putting everything in. Then the end–-can't fuck up the ending. It has to end well.
I obsess. I obsess about everything. Every little detail. I obsess over what isn't in front of me. I dream of people real and imagined. Every moment, every little thing. Too much ambition, too much detail. Extend the moments into days into lifetimes. Then what? Then what? Joy? Pain? What do you do? What to do? All this time, what to do with it?