Friday, December 9, 2011

"I dunno, I'm-a from out of town."

It's been a little while since I've posted.  I've been getting ready to go back to college, and that's been quite a distraction, among others.  Suffice it to say that I persevere, I abide, and I ultimately conquor.

I'll write more about that later, because it's late and I'm tired.  But here are a few thoughts before I withdraw.

Writer's Block

Somebody please help me knock this thing out

I don’t have any heroes
Valiant and bold
I’m not riddled with self-loathing
And hostility is old
I’m not wired for self destruction
I’ve never been to jail
I’m not in love with innocence
I’m not convinced I’ll fail

I’m not recovering from addiction
Assault, illness, or abuse
I’m not depressed or hating life
I’ve never paid my dues
I’m not obsessed with pain
Or from the tough part of town
No one’s died near me lately
And I’ve never yet found God

Somebody please help me knock this thing out


I like to think about time.

It isn’t a line, you know.  At least, it’s not just a line.


Take a piece of thread. 

A nice, long one.  Hold it by one end.

That’s how people like to pretend time is.  A straight line, with a little curve here and there. 

A start, and a finish.  No flow.  Just a neat, tidy, thin braid.

How very dull. 


Take your thread.  Hold it as high above your head as you can.

Make it a pretty one.  Gold, maybe.  Or a deep forest green.


Drop it.

Watch it glide to the ground, like a snake making love to the ocean.

That’s how time really flows, my friend. 

It doesn’t march, or fall, or run.  It glides.  It soarsIt writhes.

And then, when your thread coils on the floor, watch it carefully. 

(Before the cat starts playing with it, I mean.  Fell beast.)

You see how some parts overlap the others?

Time does that.  It loops, it coils.  It slips and slides.  It memory-chills and deja-vus, it prophets and past-lifes and forty thousand unsolved missing person-per-years.

Careful.  If you slip, there's no one there to catch you. 

But sometimes, just sometimes, you can jump.

From one coil to another.

Like a little flea.


Oh, it takes it out of you, no mistake. 

But it can be done.

Not too far
, though.  No one needs their first stroke at age twenty-six. 

And for your father’s sake, please only jump forwards.  There are kinder endings than that. 

But I don’t mess with time much.  Not really.  Not any more. 

Because time isn’t just a thread, either.

It’s a web.

And when you walk across a web, glistening with gemstones like dewdrops, there is one thing you should always remember:

This . . . is not your home. 

And some of those threads

are sticky.

Beautiful Arachne is never far away.

And that’s not even mentioning the cat.


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