Singing Into Amber

Singing into amber during a metamorphosis may cause sudden rashes and outbursts of joy. Beauty becomes an immersive experience and shakes its suppositions out of the reach of children. It rattles astronomy until the universe shivers in its nudity. Death comes into contact with the maximum dosage of life and rains dextrose over most of Iowa. It’s an empty sophistication to organize the verdure of anything beyond the call of beauty. Therefore, explode. Arrange yourself in giant collisions. Button a birch with speculation. Feel yourself among the many competing theories of David Bowie. Take a long hot shower. Consider the lily. If a single atom can emit Chicago, why not exist in multiple states simultaneously, and order pizza?   

You ask what is the color of freedom. I’m next to demonstrating it crawling towards the bump under the bistro. It’s never what you think it is, is it? Grieve its loss among the elves accelerating this narrative by nerve and raw elation. We’re ephemera in the house of the rising sun. Sometimes it takes a stunning necklace to think about syntax in addition to quinine. If you have some participles to spare, reach inside yourself with a little inclemency and pull the hands. I’ll let you know when we reach the end of the universe. You’ll see a vacancy sign and a purgatory. You have the power to change the world. But the bed requires a quarter if you want it to vibrate. A great soothing light will announce its presence in your shed. Or head. When is the head a shed, and when is the head a utensil? When it’s on live TV, & when it’s a dense molecular cloud.

Gleefully, I stood on the sand crackling with hieroglyphics. My plan to play confusedly with the cream failed to divert the conversation. It only amplified the sound of the surf as it flowed into punctuations of sand. How can you trust what you cannot control? My body, in particular, was a problem for me: its inability to remain within itself, its subordination to the eccentric demands of needs. It wanted food, flesh, voluptuous amusements and volumes of De Materia Medica with golden spines and beautiful illustrations. How does one go about appeasing the cries and shouts of the body? Indeed, my body began to go off the rails. I couldn’t keep up with the mania of its appetites. I’m not against desire. I just want to corral it a little. Lasso it. Study it. And let it go.

I never doubted my existence. The problem lies elsewhere. We remain incapable of possessing our existence. That’s one problem. Mortality is another. Our lives are continually slipping away. It’s a pretty big problem. It’s much more appealing to forget the whole thing and ride against the wind. Spend an entire afternoon sipping absinthe at a Paris bistro. These are what are called fantasies, and create swirls of lovely improbability in the mind. The roar of the crowd as you reach a high soprano C. Old friends returned from the dead. It is by courtesy and sheer carnality that our quarrels with existence defer to the textures of the moment. And thereby hangs a sock.