(no subject)
Who knows how to make love stay?
It's a good question, man. I don't know if there really is an answer. I put that up here because I love the book I found it in and, however rediculous, it teases my brain. Also (mostly) it's 2:20 am and I am a tragically resigned romantic who makes things out of nothings, trying to coax magic or meaning or inspiration out of something in this world. Right now that [no]thing is a tattered book I never returned from borrowment whose middle likes to jump out on its own sometimes. Fine, fuck it. Let it be a book. I'll take advantage of the fact that most authors, literary junkies, poets (especially those who indulge in hallucinogenic mushrooms...like this guy) are pretty skewed toward the desperation in living a life with some life in it. Or at least talking about it a lot.
But really, none of them know how to make love stay either.
And neither do I.
But I'm hoping against hope that someday it'll be content to just hang out with me. And neither of us will have to make the other do anything.
We'll just sit around and talk a lot about stuff. We'll call Tom Robbins up and tell him how to not be scared.
- Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if love stays, it can have half. It will stay.
- Tell love you want a memento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store insence burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a mustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.
- Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.
It's a good question, man. I don't know if there really is an answer. I put that up here because I love the book I found it in and, however rediculous, it teases my brain. Also (mostly) it's 2:20 am and I am a tragically resigned romantic who makes things out of nothings, trying to coax magic or meaning or inspiration out of something in this world. Right now that [no]thing is a tattered book I never returned from borrowment whose middle likes to jump out on its own sometimes. Fine, fuck it. Let it be a book. I'll take advantage of the fact that most authors, literary junkies, poets (especially those who indulge in hallucinogenic mushrooms...like this guy) are pretty skewed toward the desperation in living a life with some life in it. Or at least talking about it a lot.
But really, none of them know how to make love stay either.
And neither do I.
But I'm hoping against hope that someday it'll be content to just hang out with me. And neither of us will have to make the other do anything.
We'll just sit around and talk a lot about stuff. We'll call Tom Robbins up and tell him how to not be scared.