A tree in roots in soil, a soil in Earth in world. In world a universe alight, in light, dark incarnate.
January 29th, 2007, 7.41 AM
Why do I pretend I’m complicated, when in reality, I am just blind? I am a pigeon on the wire, trapped by the wind and afraid to move. I can hear my heartbeat in my palms, it’s a piano and a half up in there. Why hello, hello! Make yourselves comfortable, ladies and gents – the show starts now.
Retreat yourselves to your thrones as stone-built steeples stand proud all around. Observe the waters flow – open your eyes, won’t you? Waterfall, waterfall, o beautiful waterfall of mine, keep on running. Keep setting off the tiny emerald-green frogs, keep blessing this tortured land with the very elixir of life. Why, little windmill, keep on running, keep squeaking and squealing like an annoying babe in the absence of his mother. Keep showering us with love. Sky, o sky – don’t you stop now. Don’t you desert us when we most need you, and oh, never change for anyone. Oh, les fleures plastiques, little artificial bouquets, how wonderful you good fellows smell. Goodness gracious, ladies and gentlemen. Goodness gracious.
A man who doesn’t know me would conclude that I am a sad man in a happy man in a dead man’s pocket. And in the face of infinity, maybe I am just that. Perhaps I am pitiful, and perhaps I should get blown up, sort of like a balloon. Yet everyone is so – true bliss is an impossible feat to achieve, but this is as close as any man has ever come to it. Everybody, give your all for Upper Toumba, Thessaloniki, Greece. One must closely inspect it to understand what it is all about, for the telegram is as good as obsolete. Maybe I am already there, or maybe I am still on my way to my destination. Maybe I am daydreaming of being anything at all, anywhere at all. Maybe Yumi Matsutoya did hit the nail on the head, after all. I do not know, I have destroyed all that is sacred and I can barely tolerate myself these days. But I most certainly feel that I am already there, after the wind most admirably gave me a ride to this very fairyland. We are only missing the fairies to deem it such.
We do have cats of many different parameters, including variable ratings on the alive-dead scale. There are dogs… that if a little filthy, stand up to the task rather satisfactorily. And we still do hold a substantial inventory of coffee and chocolate, so I suppose it all evens out. It is a nice place to be if it is to be treated as an equal of ours.
Someday, someplace, we will find the broken link. Someday, someplace, I will flee this awe-stricken town on my tricycle. Someday I will evolve into a trolley, and someday I will gladly lug my own weight around the countryside. For now, that day is still far away, but I do believe it will come before long. I lie a joke implied between two lines, but I will someday get on that tricycle of mine. Once I’m cleared of my two DUIs, I will do it once and for all. I’ll conquer the beast upon gaming the system, and I’ll carve my own path which to ride my tricycle upon. Watch this space as intently as your good fancy urges you to. Go ahead, you do it, as did I. As I have historically done.
Little bluebird of friendliness, who watches over you? Is it some shiny God, or are you, to your judgement, more of a the-truth-lies-within-me type of fellow? Hello, fellow – I welcome you to this territory. Tread carefully, for it is not for the faint of heart. A heaven suspending off three mismatched shoestrings above the realm we call “the above” awaits you. Make yourself at home, take your sweet ol’ time. Don’t you know, sweet summer child, that Pylaia waits for you? Its highly citizenry will maintain her while you’re still a long way from home, but come back, and she will be as beautiful as she has ever been. The glitter in her eyes never retreats to its lay, and the colorful city lights always flicker in the distance, even when they are well out of sight. The rustling of the leaves has left my knees wobbling amidst the rain, in my snow-filled boots that are only good for ballet. I will dance, dance… I will feel the dayspring sun as it rests upon my face. Through every pore it will be absorbed into my brain, and I will at once be a man anew, complete with a novel dance routine and a new inventory of kilometers.
I try on shoes, but none are of my size, so I have opted for a barefoot kind of pilgrim nomadry. Where just yesterday I was digging, I will soon spy the golden mean, the diamond ideal, the snug ruby shoe – the strawberry statement I will have written, yet for it all, I’ll still have none to show. Watch over me, little bluebird of friendliness. Watch over me at all times, for I savored the flavor, and I wound up drowning in it.
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