Wednesday, January 6, 2010


I know that it's a fall, though some may call it Autumn
I know that it's a fall, cuz winter's always at the bottom


(Is this correct? What day is-was it?)

It was a long fall, and sometimes I felt I was losing my mind. I travelled for a month, got spun around, lost my center of gravity. The gallows trapdoor dropped and I just floated through the ceiling. I was obsessed with coincedence, with ghost hints, reincarnation, Hinduism, and Robert Oppenheimer, and Martin Ramirez.

It was dreary and dismal behind my eyes, ice on the slate. And misplaced guilt, or something like it, some worthless emotion rooted in pain and selfishness and abstraction, came disguised as nostalgia, resentment disguised as anger and self-pity, a whole chain reaction of frustration and loathing panting at my feet like a sick dog, nipping bits of flesh from my ever-thinning carcass.

But still I dream, and maybe dreams are an escape, or maybe they're a suggestion. Maybe we are so open to possibilities in our sleep that occasionally, if we make the "correct" choices, and follow the river to its source, naturally, and we find ourselves eating the silver thread that winds among the disease and rust and takes us exactly where it promised. The potential is all there, the possibilities are all there, and we have all the mathematically unquantifiable proofs we need in the gossamer of our winged minds.

Dreams do come true, though obviously not always, and perhaps never for some unlucky fools. (I re-read what I had just wrote, and I had accidentally scribbled "Dreams do control". After amendment, still I wonder at this early-morning slip of the pen and the hand by which it is guided). Anyway, they do come true, but only if our own actions permit. Or not. Maybe we're still just sawdust in Gawd's eye, our every action as uncontrollable and incidental as the tiny little embers that soar from a bonfire into the stars, fading to a speck of ash before even clearing the treetops.

All I know is that this past Fall, when things were their worst, I'd dream of ice and snow in Kirbyville. Ice on the creek, snow on the fields. And in the past few weeks I've spent at home, reflecting, recuperating, I've seen plenty of both, and not a single moment of chill, not a single grain of ice, nor a single ashy snowflake, goes uncherished.

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