Enjoy Your Problems

I have a wandering mind, active as a foundry, even on Saturdays, when there is no one there but Shunyata. They say a dullness of mind is seasoned with travel. If that's the case, then pack some extra underwear. Let’s put on a show. Inhibit nothing. Not even moisture. The humidity of passion. Which leaves a glaze of satisfaction and a rose by the window. Egos and eggs are similar contingencies. Eggs need a nest. Egos need a pageant. I’m trembling now with a giant palpability. It started when I noticed a shadow following me from behind. And when I turned around it walked in front of me. I was numbed by the sheer audacity of this manifest phantasm, this mockery of my Being and mitochondria. Emphasis is a form of testimony, butterflies in Fanny Brawne's bedroom. If you saw Bright Star, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Negative capability. Insidious secrets. Beaded bubbles winking at the brim of some brawny mint julep. Darkling I listen, and for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful death. The I is the eye of the cavern. The sole proprietor, as it were, of a body, replete with fingers and toes and a willingness to spring into action in the middle of Swan Lake, supple as a geistesblitz. Deep down, I’m a monster. There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand. It makes me irritable, especially when I’m chased by villagers carrying torches and pitchforks.

Sometimes I feel like 72 people scrupulously maintained by 93 lips. It’s a residual effect of choral singing for the Church of Holy Skillets. The costuming is by Arachne of Hollywood. Swimming swimwear for swimming or bringing singing to spinning in Stimmung by by Karlheinz Stockhausen. I like to create loopholes in legal briefs for certain ferocious or fabulous animals. Silly interdictions. Prohibitions against wearing cowboy boots without owning two cows. Double proxy marriage in Montana. Selling dyed ducks in quantities of less than six in Kentucky. Stimmung is an aid to my focus and reputation. Every time I pass a certain door the pocket of my cardigan sweater gets caught on the doorknob. I know there’s a reason for this, I can feel it in my bones, but there’s nothing I can do to guarantee its survival. When chaos is hungry for action chaos must be fed. Am I what I can do? What would life be like as an oboe? Enjoy your problems, counsels Shinryu Suzuki. The art should be in the way, not the content.

The luminous force under my arm is immaterial, and will not stand in a court of law. I can’t always tell what someone’s trying to do in their writing, mine especially. That odd moment with a pen in the hand, not even warm yet, still cold plastic and metal, waiting for something to come out of it, an answer fulfilling the quest of existence, which is a crisis, of sorts, is suddenly in motion, scribbling words into ensembles, outside the Poultry Building. It’s extroverted to defend products around depth. That is, stand up, take a swing, hit a ball, and make it all happen, able to absorb large amounts of raw experience. Holding still while a grizzly sniffs your body. Seeking the source of things. Of beauty. Of jurisprudence. The undulation of fins. Tents in a muddy lot. The epiphany of a hoofprint. And not for any other reason would I say this. And expect a mint.

I wonder how life feels as a jellyfish. They don’t have a brain. They react to stimuli, but they don’t think about it. Ostensibly. Consciousness is a funny thing. I mean, it evolved a mouth to say things, how crazy is that? So many organs. So many things to say. Some jellyfish species have specialized sensory organs called rhopalia (plural in Latin for club) which are located around the edge of their bell and contain eyes. This kind of thinking can distract you during a time of dissolution and stress. I often wish I lived closer to an airport. The interaction of people in airports is a never-ending fascination. The King Abdulaziz International Airport in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, has the world's largest airport aquarium. You can sit and watch Goldsilk Seabream, Red Sea Spiny Basslet, Indian Threadfish, Persian Mullet, stingrays and sharks and sometimes your own thoughts undulating in fantasias of milky oblivion, artless and free.

I will enclose a copy of my mood to show you what happened. What happened when I was 12. What happened when I was 15. And so on. The whole damn show. The whole freaky mess. First time I got drunk. Last time I got drunk. First time I got drunk I couldn’t believe you could change a shitty mood so easily. So pleasantly. Last time I got drunk I couldn’t believe how hard it is to shake off a nagging sense of despair after trying to drown it countless times. Such things are expressed, at times, in front of microphones, before an audience of people, bewildered, flatulent, bored out of their skulls. It’s all too easy to make a theater out of your grudges. But it’s hard to gaze at the world without a brave expansion of one’s pituitary. Temptations will curl their tentacles around you every random moment. It’s about this time, or any time, really, the idea of travel, anywhere, gets to be an obsession of sorts, and rains down on you like a jungle. Interaction, like sugar and water, comes across as optimism on the radio. And the world is a ball of rock orbiting a ball of heat & light. Wood to cut. Break to bake. Milk to squirt. Things to say.