Dissipation

I climbed out the office window to admire the sheets of ice stuck ot the sides of mega-buildings. They're melting, coming off the walls and crushing cars, predestrians, pets, roads, traffic lights and dumpsters. But this isn't the point. The point it: fuck dissipation. I'll tell you what I got from a day of muscle aches and twirling, twirling vestibular system. I got the desire to say, "again!, again!". If I could live out the exact same goddamn reasonably eventful but painful, wasted, dissipated day, I'd do it. I want to wrestle with a piece of paper that didn't define its terms. I want to fold over from bladder pain at too much caffeine, shout at eternity, observe the light from the cathedral windows at the JCR tranlucently penetrating glasses, half-seen, unseen, undreamed of. Put on some Aeroplane, canonical as that is, drift away, lament, meditate, still system 2 for fourteen minutes--islands of "the pure joy of being", islands of thrilling responses to melody, islands of finally figuring out the fingerpicking-Dixie-walk-it-down part. Crowded pub rooms where the singer and trupeter and bartender are all the same person, a socialist bald 1930s Swami. Renounce. Didn't you know? And I find I can't. It was eight months ago: get over it, but I cannot. I won't. It's too productive. Only when I'm shattered does my writing make me flow. Only then can I take all these things beyond my control, mash them up at will, centered on me: the causal nexus, the locus, the object of power for the one fleeting moment of sacrifice on the altar of Eternal Creation. I've considered love. I'm reconsidering materialism. I'm reconsidering ritual. I'm reconsidering God. I'm reconsidering the cost of living in hip urban areas. All because eight months ago I dissiapted. It was a silent dissipation, passing for fatigue; an iron bar was wedged in my brain. I couldn't write. The interesting things were now out there--I told them I was hardcore. I tasted what most people probably live: the amazement with new cars, the basking in status, the longing for youth: nostalgia suppressed, working my way up to partner, shuffling papers po-faced, hardcore, hardcore. Ten hour days. I want it. I want to please. I want the sugary-voiced porcelain doll of a woman to bring me my goddamn tea or things'll happen cause I'm a mover and shaker. Didn't you know? Didn't you know my scores? My goddamn scores? What'd you get on the last test? I got arrogance. Fuck sleep cycles. Twelve hours a day. Do I want it more or do I want it more because I wanted it more than the previous guy and because I wanted it more than I did last year? Fuck eight months. Self-overcoming. Singleness with a twist (I replace the wooden beam as I leave the basement hole in the wall). That fertile sycamore smell. Only when I've been emptied does my writing make me flow. Only dead eyes--shallow pools, endless muck. When I was a boy I saw a tank of water and it scared the shit out of me. Freud says: repressing mother's amniotic fluid. Jung says: the depths of the collective unconscious--where's your anima? Fuck Freud&Jung. I'll eat the tree of whatever goddamn fruit I want; I'll rage, rage against the dying pf the light. My eyes will click like cameras, irises dilating when I saw her naked shins. That's all I ever saw and that was enough. I maintain the picture in my head. It's enough to ruminate. You don't understaind: black hair (choice number two after blue hair; fuck I have a weakness for blue hair), dark, ancient, proud, intelligent, versatile, silly, serious, drunk, afraid, bored, wistful, frightened, wet, idealistic, bitter, calculating, cynical. She was all these things to me. Does anyone remember the taxicabs of Absolute Reality? I'll siphon the gas from their tanks to bring her back. I'll travel and travail again. I'll scan every crowd (I already do); every drunk time, every drunk dial, every stumbling glory hole, every time the walls bead with perspiration and my ears perk up, goosebumped from hearing the buzzing of ancient neon. Fuck lamenting. But the only time I flow is when I'm lamenting. I'm not yet ready for truth.

Consider: "Fuck off with your sofa units and strine green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let... let's evolve, let the chips fall where they may."