Train Wreck

The bliss of time. The saga of time, the past time invokes—his Christ emptiness wrote my tale, in unpronounceable cooings. Seconds tick minutes when we’re engaged in passion, a state which includes suffering,but who cares? Consider the maelstrom of sound a rock star enjoys. In earlier eras, a musical preference would have been narcotica, procedural, or natural, hardly posing you as 'odd'. ‘The church’, whatever church is, naturally blanches at lyrics. Anything is termed profane, by minds which issue it The sheer pointlessness of change, in a time-defined world, normalized and redefined bewildering arrays of suffering, as passion shifts from the flesh, to the existential. Passion veers through burning hoops, into quiescence, brewing carnal desire in monks, locked to their secular cages. The rules swing and bang like the gates winds tease, as we attempt delicate ballet, predicating its ‘grace’ upon whims we snigger about. Suffering sizes realism and grants us compassion for yokes we seek to keep.

Two freshly-impregnated twenty-somethings rub their tiny but burgeoning bellies, and talk about the state of the sated dissatisfaction of their peers. I listen with interest, to avoid the throb in my ankle, recently sprained, and tender to certain thoughts. They stopped nine words into a two breath sentence, to gawk a bunch of semi-reformed meth-heads led by a Fat Albert look alike, as they sloped by, shagged and enervated, looking for something intangible, mustering their focus en-mass. People moved, in the strewn alleyway, letting the motley band’s energy ooze past them. After a moment, she resumed, as if nothing had happened, and I bumped my foot against a table leg, hearing myself almost yelp with pain; but calculatedly coughed instead. This is the ankle I sprained in almost identical circumstances a year ago, driving me to write a novel about the phenomenon, as I used to think this level of synchronicity was weird. Time exacts our displeasure into a need to understand; I’m sure even far-sighted physicists considered the quantum realms inexpressively bizarre; and they still do. Weirdness becomes normalized in nascent layers of established reality, while scientists shrug, slowly parsing their don’t know, to know.

Technology is moving faster than any generalist can keep up with; new editions of complex problems and software to solve them, slash our previous prowess to base antiquation. The narrow-scope specialist will thrive, wowing no-nothings and armchair generalists with torrents of complexity no typical life span will effectively probe, or ford, if it plans on diversifying. You think so? Maybe. Sounds like a trend. We clink berries over it, smiling faces splattered with juice, as the conversation turns ... I tell them about the alley, and the pregnant girls, how they thought the world was ruined, so they didn’t vote, and right after they said the system was fucked, a mangy dog paraded down the alley, a headless rancid fish peeking from its grizzled maw. They smell was excruciating ... I nearly gaged when it poked its head in the door. I wanted to say : You two over there : the universe is here with a connection; but who would get it? The simile of ‘Believe you me!’ separates the id from the superego, Shut up! Shoo that mutt outta here! I can’t handle reflection that loud. And so on. Dude. Can we change the topic? The rancid fish thing is ruining my berry high.

The lithium salt scum from the underground spring stained the shallow cavern, excavated to find copper for coming wars. In a state of controlled panic, I scribbled my name in its odd smell, and woke up, wondering if lawless types and Manson-mentality, seeks balance in places of calm ... like here for instance ... warm water, old growth, silence, and crazy medicine comes together to draw the whacked to specific land. Eventually, being dim-witted and glaringly messianic, ‘or’ egotistical, they shit in their newfound nest, as non-native souls to North America have. I hear good-hearts shlepped tons of trash out, when the ruffians were eventually mustered. Having destroyed everything, they moved on to destroy/heal everything all over again.

I’d tried to make a living without compromising, and the end result is driving me insane. Slowly but surely ... the details are overwhelming me ... the balance of struggle and suffering result in a twisted ankle, to slow down, and abnegate from the madness. Hundreds of emails and dozens of phone calls, schemes beyond reckoning to pay for what would hopefully fund schemes to pay for schemes’ larger schemes, constantly upgrading hardware to raise the variant bar of the shape of the schemes I dared to scheme. For years, all resources funneled towards art, and debt inferentially grew, as the balance of fun and work erased itself in a decades-long blur of tilling what’s barely arable. Ideas of ten times the resources of time and money to enact them haunted me; I was an unhappy ragamuffin of failed ploys and frustrated roundabouts, dead end shortcuts and found materials.

Old mining equipment litters our overgrowth, hidden by change and years. It dowses times past by existing, yet seldom does it occur to us, to restore it, display it as art, or use it again. That "technology" is old, and therefore, nascent to ideas we’ve bypassed, in favor of things which now exit, to be found, and not examined for secrets. We assume the choices of progress are inherently correct, by function of existence over versions which did not enjoy mass procurement, defined by producers’ greedy whims. Inside us are entire landscapes of reality refracting choices we make and made, underneath the greedy versions of ourselves, obsessed with recognition, and powers. Locked in the actual mirror, we are blind to the versionist theory of many Is embedded in a single over soul, which in turn is embedded in ... the danger zone ... thinking like that! Oh so they’d have

you believe.