Here I Am Fumbling

Here I am fumbling among mental concepts of space. If we can’t bend reality, it’s up to us to do something other than submit to it. To give in to one's desire is to give in to the fear of what might happen if one assumed this "I," from which desire arises and pushes us. The walls are closing in. And moving back out. This means that the space is breathing. There are lapses in time that are out of my control. Space wraps itself around a world and breathes in its jasmine. Traveling requires filling the tank. The map is accurate. But the terrain is not. Energy sometimes disguises itself as mass. It does this to make us believe that life has a purpose and that our opinions matter. They don't. They shine a light in daylight, but don't light a thing at night when you need it.

The colors around here work hard. I'm not kidding let’s all cry out and call it a craze. Pink serves a beast of fire in a warehouse in Copenhagen. Red is the water talking to itself in a war. Black is the logic of the padlock. You need the eloquence of seaweed to open it. I can’t tell you how much I love the ceiling. I let my eyeballs do the walking, rather than my feet. It’s a bitter thing to be so opposite to the phenomenon we call a shadow. I envy the spiders that walk around up there. Pedestrians sip grenadine at the periphery. I don’t know what we’re looking for, or what we hope to find. The magnolia is not a stereotype. When it opens its mouth a universe spills out.

Sweet reason is a pin. A fish in a storm of flames. The tibia dwells in ignition.

We went out to look at the wildfire smoke. It was 7 p.m. and already dark as night. You could smell the smoke immediately. A dark haze filled the air. Capitol Hill was obscured by the haze. Lights twinkled on two buildings under construction downtown. There was something off-kilter about the lights, almost preternatural. They contributed to the irreality of it all. Sign of an empire in decay which – like the mycelium on a fallen log – can be quite beautiful. Odd paradox. The haunting beauty of smoke from the raging hell of all the fires consuming the world’s forests.

This was once a world of flowers. Roses and jasmine and heliotrope. Lilies and daisies and foxglove. You get the picture. Cocaine swallowed its weight in wealth and property. Hanging out was a study in circumspection. Circumference was a milk that only a breast could understand.

Today is the apotheosis of a species tormented by desire. Some have even worse torments: the hell of getting what you want. This is where all the answers to life rub up against chimeras of savage illusion. This is where a glass cat sits on a glass chair and the tea smells of burnt sugar and thought. This is where the fish think water is a mystery. Where floating works out in a cloud gym. Where mass clutches its pants. Where carrots wheel around in expandability. Where everything in a cave smacks of geometry equations and all the peacocks come with pedestrians hugging them. Where the luggage lugs itself and the vibrations are tinted with the texture of sloth. Where chrome is the story and iron is unironic. Where it happens. All of it. Even this.