Somewhere South Of The Nearest Reality

If I aim the arrow I have just now manufactured out of air, and because it's a simple word, assembled with syllables and myths and the wisdom of the morpheme, and hisses and whistles and bears the weight of my convictions, and is pointed and quartz, it will pop the balloon of the simulacrum surrounding us and sparkle in our nerves like spontaneity. We will all see that fat sphere of false reality come tumbling down in shreds of illusion, wondering what to do now that our balloon is gone, our delusions gone, our beliefs gone, our chimeras and fables gone, and a new reality has taken their place, which is both correspondent to our senses and velvet to our touch. That said, the texture of text is not always velvet. Sometimes it's coarse and widespread  and unfolds in a thousand tin angels and mysterious dirt roads, some going east, some going west, some going north and some are off to a sideshow somewhere south of the nearest reality.

I think you know what I’m getting at. The audience might be leaving. But the performance isn’t over. There are secrets to reveal, confessions to make, grudges to vent and blizzards to face.

Not to mention so many things unstated, things that must be said and are never said.

Give me a call. We’ll talk about it. We’ll get things solved. But if this is a recording, wait for the beep. I’m not here right now. I stand behind these words. That’s why you can’t see me. All you see is words. These words. Heady, vivacious, buoyant words. Words swirling in words. Like twigs in a river. Like turtles. Like blood. Like the glare of sunlight on Puget Sound in winter.

And a thousand other things that are on my mind this first day of December. And so much to remember. And so much to forget.

Right now, I’m a little preoccupied. Engorged, let’s say. Indulged by my own inclinations and left to my own resources. Absorbed. Immersed. Lost in thought. Found in absentia. Deeply focused. Senselessly abstruse.

I’m focused on tomorrow morning’s doughnuts. You can’t put your arms around a memory. But you can put your mouth around a doughnut. I like the ones powdered with the fine white dust of heaven. They say heroin is not always a wise choice. Sometimes what is most needed isn’t even necessary. It’s just a stray thought looking for some words to crawl into and become something, a circumference and a hole. In other words, something like a doughnut. Vegetables get complicated. Broccoli requires a chassis of multilayered prose. And the rhetoric of carrots is often tractional, and involves traffic. And if it lies amid ferns in the forest and looks injured, stand back and let it breathe. It’s probably nothing. It might be a mirage or a perturbance in the space-time continuum. It might be a snow globe or ultimate meaning. Or maybe just a doughnut.