I’m in a dark mood. It’s the type that you’d announce out loud before you smile, or knock on a door. It’s a mood that lets you sneak into other peoples windows, where men and women are rubbing their faces like rape victims, blind to each other, standing in chambers receiving the ugliest news. I see them walking outside their homes, drying themselves with muffled pleas of disbelief. They see me and thank god they are not me, I wave back smiling.
I smile like nectar in a frenzied beehive; I want to be gulped as some kind of truth, I’m acting like a self conscience whisky barrel. I’m digging deeper into my strange language; I carry it like oxygen so that I’m finally remote dangling my feet from a grand crater. That is the same spot where I wrote the name of my first love on a tree. The tree is much smaller now, with a small shadow, it looks like a trinket. It’s the same spot where I pondered words like orphan, or sentences “ I desire that you know me, no what I write.” It’s the same spot the drunkards stumble upon, from above like a shooting star, where the damaged, the lunatics, and the in-love, camp for a night or two or at least use to.
I lament for the days where the absurd was fiction. I’m reliving my childhood at 40, once again the ignorance of blind faith is relegated to slave matters, as the civilized and mannered masters speak of things with valence, like Adam Smith, Nietzsche, or Karl Marx. All my friends are sitting on the table, waiting for their steaks. I’m painting them right now, because I do not know what else to do.
It’s a mood that wonders if flowers feel empty, after they blossom.
It’s a sharp razor mood that gleans back at the sun, slicing the nooses from the balcony right above the sky. I’m not shy, I believe we all share an eternal bend towards emptiness, a mortal affliction that lets us prize the timelessness of the stones. I arrive at water like a poet that suddenly realizes he is on the moon. I love the wetness. I love how water is an allusion to sex, even when it is not. I think you should go outside and stand in the rain every once in a while. I tell myself not to be awestruck at the news anymore, or what my friends think, as I listen to myself and wait for the rain. I shuffle my thoughts. I listen to the impossible, to the out there, to the future, to build my tolerance. As I think of the future, I fear that my children may never know me. It’s an odd thought; a hyper realism type of a thought that turns off all other thinking. I sat on my crater and pondered how vast is this wasteland as caterpillars fed on butterflies; forgetfulness is the word I pondered. I have internalized the agonies of so many tragedies this past week, the constant deaths and exodus of Syrians, the relentless destruction brought on by ISIS, the failed states of Iraq, Libya, Yemen, West Bank, Gaza, and the slimy gobbling underbelly of the literalist religion. I shuffle my thoughts like an old radio station.
Though I’m not certain of many things, I’m certain of the joy that my children experience, as it’s contagious. This is my fortune. Watching my boy read the alphabets exploding with happiness is life affirming. Seeing my girls sing together “let it go” is life affirming.
I hope in my lifetime I can provide them with the tools and skills that will help them dig and find themselves. As I know with certainty within us is the Self we desire most, it is our only Art and it’s the only vehicle that may transcend this vast wasteland.