There is something to be said for thunder (echo or alarm). There is something to be said for wine and cake. I’ll try not to put much thought into this post. Just a mess of words on a Saturday morning...My birthday is coming, and I wish I had time to read. Is getting older losing something or gaining something? Why don’t I mourn getting older each day that passes, but instead feel the burden of age on just one day of the year? I know I am not old yet, but age is relative. I feel I’ve missed something because I’ve been trying so hard to get there. If I were Simone de Beauvoir writing letters to Sartre, maybe I would throw it all out the window for the reality of physical and spiritual intimacy combined, titles and all. Maybe. Maybe Closet poets don’t always write on the page, but always write on the sky. When I close my eyes I can see a number line. The red arrow is pointing forward—toward another year?—death—a chance to do it all? If we could accomplish everything within the same network of time…maybe then we’d get a better sense of the world. Splashing through puddles while learning to play the mandolin…speaking Portuguese while painting a cornucopia in surrealist style. I’ll add a lobster to my canvas just to emulate Dalí. Using derivatives to build pristine bridges and detailing the human genome…Using pathogens to study immunity in plants and plants to cure disease in humans…listening to thunder and whales with the same musical criticism.

This excerpt from “A Speech about the Moon,” by Chelsey Minnis sums my feelings up nicely:

I think, “I am going to sleep” and “I am dreaming about grey hair.” and I lie very still for a while. I think, “I can strew daises in grew hair…”

Then I start to cry and the tears flow down to my teeth. I think, “Everyone has to bite silver mesh.”

I constantly try to think, “Fish are resting in the sea.” Or “Some fish are just hanging in the sea.”

And I lie very still and tell myself, “…In the middle of the night…it is totally quiet… noe crabs are coming towards you…”

Then I sit up and cup my hands over my nose and shake my head slowly back and forth.

The world rises up on both sides of me. I think, “I have to die.”

Then I lie in a position for a while.

everything the same

It is strange how things can seem the same. Take for example, pale white steps in the middle of the prairie reminding you of the precise cascade of stairs leading to the temple of the sun at Machu Picchu…how a small beetle descending a rock can remind you of a crab conquering a mountain of coral. The way a particular smell is the exact same as the smell of a trip to Montana...how a new face has your mother’s eyes. Is it form or function that brings up past memories, turning the new into shadows of something else? Then of course there are the déjà vu moments that make the present feel like the past. Are we just reliving the same...? I am not sure where I am going with this really, just that where you are is always like somewhere you have already been—at least somehow. I find that music is the same. One song blends into another. Lyrics are poems I wrote in my sleep. Melodies are like archetypes used over and over. I wonder if this takes the mystery out of life...How our minds are constantly comparing each moment to moment, experience to experience. Nothing is separate. Nothing is unique. On the other hand, perhaps, it is our ability to relate that gives life consistency or provides peace of mind. Does it allow for the metaphor? Maybe it can make us feel at home wherever we are. Maybe, similarities can help us find comfort even in strangeness. Or perhaps, it explains why we favor certain things, developing a taste for one style over another. Is it because of our past experience? G and I have been discussing lyrics and purpose lately. Cocorosie sings the following and I swear I’ve been there. Dreaming and breathing these thoughts and feelings—or at least something similar…

“I dreamt one thousand basketball courts”

“your hot kiss in mid December/what's god's name i can't remember”
Cocorosie (K-Hole)