(no subject)
And you can almost see some giant over the horizon.
Maybe I believed that I'd find something new, maybe I will believe that everything old has changed and become in some way mysterious and inscrutionable(if that's even a word-it's not). But all of the mystery and adventure and beginnings of comic books have over-lapped and faded and eclipsed other threads so nicely that I can only bear one hugely beautiful thing in my life. none of which have fallen among this heavy snow.
finding this difficult? I've got a million miles to go.
vague as always and plodding along with heavy slippery feet.
slipper-ed feet on the cold linoleum floor. I've been sifting through old bits of ceramic pots with deaf dumb hands, and I've found nothing beautiful. I haven't had even a whiff of that certain passion in such a terribly long time. It's all this smoke-filling my lungs. It's all this liquid seeping into my blood.(but it's the only new thing.) There are so many ways that I know I shouldn't outlet- but those are the ways that I want to most(because there is some mystery in why I would act in any way that is not decidedly me-"me")Or who I used to be or used to want to be.
and none of this has to do with any of the days that have been passing, or the ache in my stomach or in my bones- that has me worried. It has more to do with shoes that are dirty from the repetition of pavement- dragged across stop signs and cross walks- and strangers driveways.
It has more to do with being self conscious of the telephone.(I suppose there's no me in it.)
(and I guess I should be far gone by now--there is no fairy tale ending to hope for.)
And I'm ready to start another story- another comic book page(with me a faceless girl in the crowd)
Which would be much preferable
SO: WHAT'S LEFT?
This is WHATS LEFT.
Maybe I believed that I'd find something new, maybe I will believe that everything old has changed and become in some way mysterious and inscrutionable(if that's even a word-it's not). But all of the mystery and adventure and beginnings of comic books have over-lapped and faded and eclipsed other threads so nicely that I can only bear one hugely beautiful thing in my life. none of which have fallen among this heavy snow.
finding this difficult? I've got a million miles to go.
vague as always and plodding along with heavy slippery feet.
slipper-ed feet on the cold linoleum floor. I've been sifting through old bits of ceramic pots with deaf dumb hands, and I've found nothing beautiful. I haven't had even a whiff of that certain passion in such a terribly long time. It's all this smoke-filling my lungs. It's all this liquid seeping into my blood.(but it's the only new thing.) There are so many ways that I know I shouldn't outlet- but those are the ways that I want to most(because there is some mystery in why I would act in any way that is not decidedly me-"me")Or who I used to be or used to want to be.
and none of this has to do with any of the days that have been passing, or the ache in my stomach or in my bones- that has me worried. It has more to do with shoes that are dirty from the repetition of pavement- dragged across stop signs and cross walks- and strangers driveways.
It has more to do with being self conscious of the telephone.(I suppose there's no me in it.)
(and I guess I should be far gone by now--there is no fairy tale ending to hope for.)
And I'm ready to start another story- another comic book page(with me a faceless girl in the crowd)
Which would be much preferable
SO: WHAT'S LEFT?
This is WHATS LEFT.