I have agreed to follow this trajectory
to its end, where it is staunched
by a crevice at the close of language.
I have made mules of my hands, foals
to pull me onward and make me lithe
so at the finish, the fissure will accept me
and my limbs will vanish through the comb of rock.
Who will know me after
I reroute my tongue to the marsh beneath,
like each of the four veins
crawling back to the Tree, always
dragging their codas behind them.
All local and private culture I’ve exposed myself to practices legerdemain when it comes to the truth of our own autonomy recognized, realized and potentiated. Our intuitive circuits are like pine needles, they depend on dew, which forms seemingly like magic on surfaces that are not warmed by the heat radiating from the very ground we walk on. Only visible by morning and evening: two vivid, leafy archetypes for the omnipresent sensation of being strung up by a pleasant dream or feeling designed by a nightmare. Truly, you are one or the other at any given moment. The ears of the Leporidae are unremitting; but both the meadow and the city play on them all night long!
According to Jung, the infant’s mother must facilitate the notion that its wish is the world’s command– to understand that now is not enough. Even the acceptance of one’s childhood, spent in a gentle quarantine of self-actualization, backstage of its parental orbit, does not reconcile the proper disposal of that guilt or solve the time while the guilt is dissolving too slowly. The face of the force that meets the infant’s needs in physical form, will the infant, now grown, smile at its regeneration forever? That untouchable guilt and our psychic integrity are an essential organ of our inescapable two-fold experience. We long to rejoin the primitive only after we have transmuted it along the way into the closest conceivable seat beside ourselves as infant-deities. Just how close to Love is: surrendering to continually conceive of a repugnant, quintessentially parasitic source of life only to meet the comprehension, time and time again, that one’s own evolution and sloughing of stagnating pain is dependent on how much of that life-force it can prepare for spiritual consumption. This realization, by default, can not be achieved without the companion knowledge that what was conceived can only be made holy by one’s own labor and lastly, that in time it will die. In its death is another essential paradoxical nutrient: the relationship as symbiotic. The sweetness of this fruit comes from the supreme design of limitation of our own awareness of the vastness of our capacity as hosts; we will survive the deaths of all we birth and in turn be nourished by them.
Once, when I was barely of age, I used the ancient Taoist concept called Mien Shiang to justify the insistent clairvoyant notion of my father’s death, which has still yet to happen. He has some sort of distinguishing mark, likely a scar, on the precise facial coordinate that denotes a profound event at the age of fifty-eight. He turned fifty-eight last month and has more than his fair share of common chronic illnesses and an absolute whirlpool of stagnant energy in his heart. A few nights ago, I researched, albeit very lightly, the spiritual parallel to pain in the Achilles tendon for my mother, who is just now priming herself for the emergence and subsequent manifestation of her greatest weakness: a monstrous amalgamation of brittle self-worth, crippling and unchecked empathy, and what appears to her as an innate desire to abandon every fruit of her resolve. This past Sunday, I had my first church experience out of curiosity and an attempt to further my awareness of this systematically ubiquitous rendition of religion deemed Christianity in the west. It was a Greek Orthodox Church. I enjoyed it sensually, which is very much the extent to which I could absorb the experience because of my aversion to the scripture. No pews, ritual bells and incense, a choir singing and chanting interchangeably and truly wonderful archaic art in the style of a century I could vaguely guess at. Lastly, this week, I attended an intimate birthday party for a girl and her group of friends which I had just come to know over the course of a matter of hours. Nothing new, nothing bizarre about it at all in fact, I feel like I have been in some rendering of that scenario more times than I can think to count, however I’m at a heavily transient plot in my timeline so some of the details of this otherwise underwhelming event stood out. The birthday girl had just turned twenty, yet throughout the entire duration of the party, not one person who attended other than myself brought up her passing through a new age. Like many young people in Columbia, the dwelling is old, at times functional at best, other times possessing a superficial sort of character only found in things dated but not neglected entirely. Young women confined in the symbolic effort of spinster decor. I realized this in the bathroom. The paint literally exuded carelessness, drooping off of surrounding surfaces, defying its two-dimensional act in a way that made you feel smaller, unsafe, in a place robbed of a design to age gracefully. And then there was, of course, the distinct choice of neon from the commercial college palette, decorated just so as to be an unabashed continuation of the egocentric illusion of individuality. The greens and pinks and swirly blues projected ceaselessly into the eyes of the young now enrolled in the process of divorcing her parents, her friends, her self. Do not think for a second that the utility of the trash bin I was looking at had been compromised, if that was the case, maybe she would have paid more attention during the transaction. Instead, the foot goes down, the lid comes up, the trash goes in, we don’t look back.
No, look, as I create a memory. Tickle my own synapses until the image appears, provoked. Here I am trying to wrap my arms around a giant bucket made of glass, perfection. Amphibians inside appear regal as fuck. I’m flinging feelings of arousal around and around the rim, a ledge. I do not yet believe in my age. So I jump into the mirage refraction of my own body, bared, a toddler, L’Enfant, face-first, all my life, when I’m not looking. The blemish-less glass is now hilarious in a purely dissonant way but a stranger believes I’m merely a happy baby. Sit me on the dryer. Let it shake until I fall, sleeping in an invisible cocoon!
Writing this to the sound of cicadas convulsing against trees and the hourly ambulance wailing is ritual enough (in theory) to bind me to this circuit. Truly, I feel I know only one person who has written outside of the law. I punish myself for breaking all laws between us, confessing. Today, like all other days, I felt for the familiar bonds of the family curse. Pluto in the one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eighth house. I run my mind along the musculature of memories to find fresh perforations, little nodules of pain, scar tissue from this or that clean cut of trust. I’ve not only worked, but refined, something… something to the bone but daylight is a slow drip and by sunset I forget precisely what it is I’m creating. If I could have it a way, it’d be the way that dreams, for better or for worse, are always hinting at it.
I’ve had this one-second-robust idea of a film I’d like to see almost every day, for the past month. Today it’s a flash of a rosy-hued stamp with a few soft-lined vines on either side. Not quite a jungle scene, the pinkish sepia is too modern. There is a girl, a lead, but she’s understood and her image isn’t generated. The vision of it all retracts every time I try to conjure it up inside my head. Someone could easily say I smoke too much, I think I just play goddess in a different way. Why create worlds when so many are already in a fugue state? My insecurities are a volt of vultures who’ve evolved just enough to fantasize. They pick apart the future carcasses of my whole fucking world before each has time to catch its first cold. This reminds me of all the knots on the counting rope of prayers to no one titled: please don’t let mommy be doomed. If multiple divorces are truly their own counting rope of generational curses for the family, I’d like to (and do now to past lovers) pose the question: just what can you ever divorce?
I’d like everybody to be quiet for a second and enter the X-Ray Room.
Look at the insect shown here in my skull, now, tell me what frightens most:
Those additional eyes with so much more of you to take in?
Or those ancillary legs, granting the quickest escape from you?