Tuesday, August 09, 2005
These are the bloody super wormy balls that uplift our systems with little prodding, only with shelter and food, some breathing, some pills. I am feeling it is time to die and shed the outer layers of deadness and become more something - something new, something slithery on the rocks of slowness. I am perpetrating moves of fake improvisation on the relics. I figure it is like smiling - if you do it even without purpose you still benefit. I am hoping to benefit from surprises and licking of brush hairs in the goo of tomorrow. So far there is yellow and stinking rotten sunbursts, trees that over-articulate in the sordid breezes and clotted flesh forms that seek to become grotesquely up there in the strata of exciting subjects. I am ridiculous in my ambitions, they dwarf the real. Self-consciousness puts me at a supreme disadvantage when trying to tell a story.
The superlatives I am suckling from include:
I am girating, hoping to remove extra sags of blubber from the toothpick center, the wooden understructure that times all motion. My motions are haphazard and lacking in oneness. Yet still, yet still, there are reflections of idealized wonderment in the placid ripples of magnetic wanton surface tension. I am excited about tomorrow. I am excited about making less sense than today. Please help me.