If there were a verb meaning "to believe falsely," it would not have any significant first person, present indicative.-Wittgenstein
I went to Berkeley between Sophomore - Junior year (Junior-Senior I think I was traveling, Senior-spent last summer in Virginia, 1987, barefoot, always, pregnant not so much. My friends were scattered. They have circled the wagon by now. Now that I have moved on and the things I lack no longer matter to me and the one thing I thought I was over and done with is the one compelling pain that tugs at the centrifugal force of my heart. This journey, these truths, the speaking into the microphone -- would it mean something different if he wasn't your son? Why does it always seem that way? What is this alternate universe I find myself in where I feel everyone's pain and comfort them all while no one understands why I bleed, and how I will mend.
This is the sadness of the world.
This is the kindness of your eyes.
THE TRANSITIVE WAVE OF IGNORING THE NOTHINGNESS
My love is not lengthy nor verbose, there are no extra words, no spare parts for the safety net of others you think could be in your future. No, by now, the twinge is a dangerous sign of things to come and the end is always and never near enough.The point of this begins with the remembering and the sorting and the wishing for other than what you have, the sorrow just never goes completely away, would it if my identity crisis were over? Probably. If my cash flow matters and soul purpose were figured out, I could go through the motions better than anyone to get to the prize of having lived well, in a meager way, by the end, just not to have been a total loss. Right now, it's feeling 50-50 as the number careens towards my chlorine twinge bladder infection memory of so much pain for so damn long, like Flannery O'Connor's peg-legged girl of the straw barn bed. I don't know and I don't want to be reminded. Take your pain and move on, go back to your ivory towers, my circle is even smaller, it becomes a cast off hologram of syphoning proportions.I wait. I want more. I can't move, I can't get it. I don't know where it is. What it is. you tell me to tell you. Why? I did and that was not a good idea. Why is this a need of yours to make me feel a certain way? That makes me go the other opposite direction as I stare down at my toes and the ledge or the bridge or the way below all I can ever think is I am not afraid of heights. Imagine that.I crawl back in, like I love Lucy from the pigeons.And tomorrow, we begin again.But tonight has not come to an end.
If there were a verb meaning "to believe falsely," it would not have any significant first person, present indicative.-Wittgenstein
I went to Berkeley between Sophomore - Junior year (Junior-Senior I think I was traveling, Senior-spent last summer in Virginia, 1987, barefoot, always, pregnant not so much. My friends were scattered. They have circled the wagon by now. Now that I have moved on and the things I lack no longer matter to me and the one thing I thought I was over and done with is the one compelling pain that tugs at the centrifugal force of my heart. This journey, these truths, the speaking into the microphone -- would it mean something different if he wasn't your son? Why does it always seem that way? What is this alternate universe I find myself in where I feel everyone's pain and comfort them all while no one understands why I bleed, and how I will mend.
This is the sadness of the world.
This is the kindness of your eyes.
THE TRANSITIVE WAVE OF IGNORING THE NOTHINGNESS
My love is not lengthy nor verbose, there are no extra words, no spare parts for the safety net of others you think could be in your future. No, by now, the twinge is a dangerous sign of things to come and the end is always and never near enough.The point of this begins with the remembering and the sorting and the wishing for other than what you have, the sorrow just never goes completely away, would it if my identity crisis were over? Probably. If my cash flow matters and soul purpose were figured out, I could go through the motions better than anyone to get to the prize of having lived well, in a meager way, by the end, just not to have been a total loss. Right now, it's feeling 50-50 as the number careens towards my chlorine twinge bladder infection memory of so much pain for so damn long, like Flannery O'Connor's peg-legged girl of the straw barn bed. I don't know and I don't want to be reminded. Take your pain and move on, go back to your ivory towers, my circle is even smaller, it becomes a cast off hologram of syphoning proportions.I wait. I want more. I can't move, I can't get it. I don't know where it is. What it is. you tell me to tell you. Why? I did and that was not a good idea. Why is this a need of yours to make me feel a certain way? That makes me go the other opposite direction as I stare down at my toes and the ledge or the bridge or the way below all I can ever think is I am not afraid of heights. Imagine that.I crawl back in, like I love Lucy from the pigeons.And tomorrow, we begin again.But tonight has not come to an end.
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