(no subject)
and it must be written, otherwise it comes out in a whoosh of air to the brain, in a gasping stutter between here and eternity - and that line, we are already tiptoeing on a daily basis, staring over the edge into the precipice of night. we wash through it like the waves that we are, or perhaps it is simply the waves washing over us: i remember i would get out of the ocean, out from the 6 foot waves, and my old friend had simply laughed and said, 'i thought you broke your neck that one time, girl!' but i simply smiled. 'i'm an aquarius. the only way to not let the waves kill you, when they're like THAT [pointing out at the now-3000 miles further off ocean] is to flow with it...' and that is what that place taught me, and that is what that land taught me. una roca en el medio del mar... todavia lo digo en espanol, porque es mas facil, mas fluente... mas RITMO RITMO RITMO DE LAS OLASS! but this, but these, these these these oblations, oblutions, obelisks and threads of the most gossamer of fabricos, but together in this tapestry through which i sail... they cannot be sufficiently expressed, not now, not like this. it is too much, it is too raw, too visceral, too impending... too sacred, too Holy, holy, Holy, holy, like Allan Ginsberg cried... Holy.