i went to a show.
cut from a bulletin i thought i would have posted:
tonight: ... the ecstatic bagpipe-esque acoustic wah, a drone changing before it notices its own nature, sent me off into an existential serenity (until the jew's harp. that makes me feel the way you do when you have that dream about your teeth falling out.) but seriously, ecstatic state = higgs + lyrics + not enough sleep + working twelve hours a day + proofreading christian books for two weeks and pitying people who think that a christian romance novel can describe all the erotic bits of a psyche without sin, justified or fantasized, hidden hither and yon. you know i'm not one to get all deep on you, but ... mmm. i feel better. better than the post-coital mood you reach after an exhausting dance party where everyone remembers everything and includes and sublimates it into a fiery cusp. you know what i mean, when you know without picking it apart where all your flawed bits fit in to everyone else's flawed bits, and all the flaws you see in everything click into a whole that make the moment, and you hold your breath until you see stars because this is it, this is when you can accept everything and love everything not despite, but because-alone it's wrong, but together it all fits and makes every move you take worthwhile; when you hate it all apart, dissembling and disassembled, yet in one place, layered upon more layers mixing and opposed an uncontrived whole rises. you're one and not-one, you're there, you taste on the tongue-tip all the flavors the new-age bookstore section tries to explain without gods, a-a burst, one unintentional cry, a newborn angel's scent, the last period in a dissertation/distillation, the last crumb of sweetest fresh bread, the salt of your last lover's last tear, the last push of an afterbirth, the tang of the salt of your sweat spent for another, the first sweet breath of a potentiality born of pain, the ache of intentions unfulfilled, a first kiss born of so many practiced couplings, the intangible burden of as-yet unconceived fantasies realized in flesh, the weight of air heavy with silent dreams, the light of greyed clouds, the moment when you realize today's dawn was yet a moment ago but forever irretrievable, and can never be replicated in a forever's worth of days.
yup. git 'er done. the limen is never a trifle, and i do better to step back than to step in heedless, as into the dog shit of a pet of the other classes. to just limn, and feign an understanding, is enough. i push you, i push myself. i want to see the other reaction. where will you go? what should i expect from you? are you yet beyond arm's reach? to me, you have gone where i expected you would, past the clouded walls of doubt into a new world, one into the veldt of potential, and yet another into the murk of self-love, where none can reach save those who bother to feed coin into the serial of your fantastic egomania. one i strive to touch, and the other the touch abhorred, yet both are uncertain and conmingled, raw desires confused and dissembled. flawed? is there yet purity in dissension? destruction in a rebirth? the touch abhors and yearns, language another armor and chink in hope. i am truly disgusted with optimism, the secret vice of the eternal cynic.
every day, i believe my disbelief can deliver me from belief.
tonight: ... the ecstatic bagpipe-esque acoustic wah, a drone changing before it notices its own nature, sent me off into an existential serenity (until the jew's harp. that makes me feel the way you do when you have that dream about your teeth falling out.) but seriously, ecstatic state = higgs + lyrics + not enough sleep + working twelve hours a day + proofreading christian books for two weeks and pitying people who think that a christian romance novel can describe all the erotic bits of a psyche without sin, justified or fantasized, hidden hither and yon. you know i'm not one to get all deep on you, but ... mmm. i feel better. better than the post-coital mood you reach after an exhausting dance party where everyone remembers everything and includes and sublimates it into a fiery cusp. you know what i mean, when you know without picking it apart where all your flawed bits fit in to everyone else's flawed bits, and all the flaws you see in everything click into a whole that make the moment, and you hold your breath until you see stars because this is it, this is when you can accept everything and love everything not despite, but because-alone it's wrong, but together it all fits and makes every move you take worthwhile; when you hate it all apart, dissembling and disassembled, yet in one place, layered upon more layers mixing and opposed an uncontrived whole rises. you're one and not-one, you're there, you taste on the tongue-tip all the flavors the new-age bookstore section tries to explain without gods, a-a burst, one unintentional cry, a newborn angel's scent, the last period in a dissertation/distillation, the last crumb of sweetest fresh bread, the salt of your last lover's last tear, the last push of an afterbirth, the tang of the salt of your sweat spent for another, the first sweet breath of a potentiality born of pain, the ache of intentions unfulfilled, a first kiss born of so many practiced couplings, the intangible burden of as-yet unconceived fantasies realized in flesh, the weight of air heavy with silent dreams, the light of greyed clouds, the moment when you realize today's dawn was yet a moment ago but forever irretrievable, and can never be replicated in a forever's worth of days.
yup. git 'er done. the limen is never a trifle, and i do better to step back than to step in heedless, as into the dog shit of a pet of the other classes. to just limn, and feign an understanding, is enough. i push you, i push myself. i want to see the other reaction. where will you go? what should i expect from you? are you yet beyond arm's reach? to me, you have gone where i expected you would, past the clouded walls of doubt into a new world, one into the veldt of potential, and yet another into the murk of self-love, where none can reach save those who bother to feed coin into the serial of your fantastic egomania. one i strive to touch, and the other the touch abhorred, yet both are uncertain and conmingled, raw desires confused and dissembled. flawed? is there yet purity in dissension? destruction in a rebirth? the touch abhors and yearns, language another armor and chink in hope. i am truly disgusted with optimism, the secret vice of the eternal cynic.
every day, i believe my disbelief can deliver me from belief.