The House Of Being

I’m grotesquely shameless. And haunted by a paper cow. How do I interpret this scribbling? I curl up into a towering solitude and begin stimulating forgetfulness with a pillow and a dream.

I awake and open my eyes and consciousness floods into my head. The damage done to our planet is catastrophic and irreversible. It’s not an easy thing to realize. All the words glitter and I ponder their shape. But there’s nothing words can do. It’s like squeezing a sponge. Nothing comes out but what went in. Thinking is a strange activity. I’m the ghost that haunts myself. I carry a lavender barometer and watch mutations take place in a paragraph teeming with equations and crows.

When we returned home the other day there was a man standing on a stepladder eating blackberries. The sweet play of hemlock branches in the breeze. I felt the vibrations of a distant star and got out of the car with a song in my heart and a new temperature to feel unearthed from the treasures of the past.

Robert Plant screaming I can hear it calling me back home in Arcata, California, 1969.

These aren’t the explosives I ordered but they’ll do for the moment.

No edge, however sharp or dull, can escape itself. Sometime you just have to take that leap into the unknown. And the final version of that will be dying. Which goes on all the time. And nobody comes back to talk about it. I find this strange. And more than a little frustrating.

Last week a waitress brought me a blackberry cobbler with a single candle in it. And this taught me something about gratitude.

Sometimes I say things that are the opposite of what I feel. And that leaves me feeling constricted like a shrunken head in control of nothing but soup. A renunciation of instinct can only take you so far. What matters is sincerity. The music of the spheres. Ecology and tea. And that’s when it’s calling me back home.

I don’t understand the universe. Who brought it here? And where is here? Is here here or somewhere else?

The painters arrived without warning and stomped around in their shoes painting walls that didn’t need painting. They left chewed gum on the sidewalk and buzzsaws in my brain.

Desire is a light. It will show you the way. But you have to let yourself feel it. If you don’t feel it it will feel you and cause havoc to reign. Or dullness and indifference to assume alloys of silver and jade. Beauty is elusive. You can see it without seeing it and feel it without feeling it. But in the end, you’ll find everything hemmed with dark matter and subatomic particles coughing up record players.

It’s nice to see vinyl making a comeback.

This is the life I lead: a joker in an irrational orbit still trying to unveil chaos to see how the ratatouille might improve with a little more sage and hallucination. As Karen Carpenter used to say, the money is in the basement. The point of almond isn’t ecstasy it’s motocross. The Being for whom Being is a question is a whereabouts not a will-o-the-wisp.

Shall I just come out and say it? I love the smell of rain.