I am lonely. Let me start by saying that, and then opening up a little further, to tell you, I am happy.
A little boy cries, I ask him, “What is wrong?”
“Something doesn’t have to be wrong for you to cry.”
He is right. I cry, on this page, all the time. I smile to the world, people passing, the noise of crowds and music near by, those groups, those social circles full of laughing, dancing, good times. I do not want that, I want what I have, sitting here with a bottle of wine, my soft pastels, my blank white page and my hash.
To do something you care about, without getting paid for it, you feel a pressure to always be happy, but to do something you care about, there must be pain, the ego must die, this is my spiritual path, and one day the heart will beam love without the need of blood, but I raise this glass to my mouth and I say cheers to you.
I am happy with my sadness. With my vices. I watch my habits, find them intriguing, wonder why he hurts himself, wonder why he needs that, then that, then wonder how he never gets bored finding out the same things every day.
I sit on this balcony, with my legs crossed, in the mountains of India, writing my next novel, this ambitious story that is like an elephant in the back of my skull trying to squeeze through the pin hole that is my minds eye.
I start believing in god again, I move towards the purity, because all these blockages that prevent the next page are me, my failed science experiments, moving one step closer to no where each time.
Every one believes in god. Some just don’t believe in the god they believe in. Some just say no, the ego has this. Well, mine hurt so many people, and still does, I would like to stop that. I guess you just know. Something. Enough times in the cocoon of death, to come out again, a pattern covered butterfly with a few days to fly, landing on the nose of a girl you could love, dying once more, what will be next?
Every single girl will give you grief, so out of logic, only deal with one, only love one, only be tormented by one. There is an essence of the celibacy salesman’s arrival in every distraction. Distraction from what, life? This is it.
Yeah, I know this is it, and I'm not going to pretend to not know something I do. That is life, the power of no. What do I have to offer but everything they desire?
When you say no, when you offer just friendship, maybe a conversation, a smile, interest, care, that is not enough. They want your soul.
Well, someone else has mine and that is hard enough to deal with. My soul, look at her running across the page right now, isn’t she beautiful?
Be honest soul, you can be quite the hassle, and you are never really happy, have you noticed that?
She whispers, “I just know how good it gets.”
“We will get there when we get there, but first, lets be here, otherwise when he arrive in heaven, we wont know how to be there.”
She understands, that this is heaven, that this is hell too, that this is ours, however we wish to see it, and we wish to see the truth, and you only need to see the truth once, everyone understands that, and lies, you need to see them a million times, you need to keep putting sand in the mouth to stop it from being honest. There is nothing others can do that is worse than the maintenance of keeping a lie. The fugitive says, just take me, I did it, it was me, I killed me.
Well, I am writing, and forgetting to drink this wine that taste like my toothpaste, and forgetting to light this joint that taste like anxiety.
Pride is a hindrance to love. I am proud of the girl I love, she makes me smile, and I want her to worship me, because my god takes her form, but I want to live my own life, and I want to love, and that leaves one option; to love someone living their own life. That is what love is– Life, but life is larger than love, the one I know anyhow.
This book, I'm tired of it, find it boring, find it mundane, just a big chunk of half chiselled marble, and I don’t know what piece to carve next, but it is carving me, and I'm playing chess with a force my eyes cant see.
“Find the scorpion tree,” a voice whispered to me in the morning.
I don’t know what that means, do you?
Go slow my son, but go.
That is my motto, good to have a motto! Be gentle with this creature that I am, understanding how it works, taking the mule up the hill to deliver apples to the village, that mule looks miserable, what else is it going to do, it’s a mule, have you ever seen one that looks happy? Let him look however he pleases, that’s the stubbornness of him, you couldn’t make him a jolly horse no matter how hard you tried, my beautiful mule.
“It is just something I am good at,” says my mule.
“I am sorry I demand more,” I reply.
“Without you, I never would have seen the view from up there.”
Let me have another go at this wine. Bit better than the last sip, every sip a little better, each sip your judgment resides, and you just think, being alive is alright. This consciousness that is bigger than the fraction we are of it, is worth it in comparison to not. Like the small bird, who sounds like it is singing, is actually screaming, and cannot drink from the river without fear that something will eat it, well I am a large bird and I drink without fear, thanks to this thing that makes me sentient, that turns on my frequency, that knows I will die but not they. That if something eats me, it is me too.
That is life, nothing needs to be fixed, for it isn’t broken, but don’t mistake it for stagnant, it is always growing, always dying, as the cycles come back with more strength, the line in the trunk was once its exterior, was once what you touched with that cosmic hand, buried by its success, its strength is suffocating.
Yes I am writing this now, after not for a while, three pages a day of the next book, growing so tired of the restrictions of linear and logic, wanting to move sideways without everything falling down because of it, wanting to be free, wanting to be fresh, wanting to be new, wanting to be someone other than the me I was yesterday, because he was me cause of the guy the day before, and follow that all the way back, this long book is a contract with someone dumber than me, but we share something other than our nose, and laptop, and tattoos, we share faith.
The rain comes down now, the white noise on the tin sheds, the soft breeze, the fog that moves in, suggesting that maybe this is a dream, noises of people like a carnival all around me, I am happy for them, I am happy here, listening to the rain, held prisoner by it, writing because I need a friend but do not want to make one. I make me up, and I speak with him, what a twisted mood, well it is just the truth, my judgement isn’t.
Another go at the wine, something might happen.
I could be anywhere you know, I do have that freedom thanks to alcohol and art. I could be in bed with the girl I love, warm and safe. I could be on the beaches of Nice, fondling with French ladies bits and having fun like a human would. I could be in a football team, in a worksite, I could be living a life and enjoying it, but instead I am here, the garbage man, removing all the rubbish in my mind to allow my divinity to breathe, dying on this sword, I choose to be here, where I am, as the wind changes, water on the screen creating droplets of the rainbow, forcing me to move, forcing me to stop, this rain, I am a prisoner to nature. I am just nature. My body is as sentient as a rock. Smoothed by awareness. Skimmed on the river of destiny by a child having fun by throwing. I'm a ghost with a thousand eyes. An archer with a thousand targets
Now, I know that this bee does not want to sting me, so I am not afraid, because I don’t want to sting him either. But now he is crawling into the open wine bottle, and I have to say, “Stop it,” as I shoo him away. Now he might sting me, and I understand that, but it is my wine, I am some one you know, I have some things.
I say to the bee, “If you take my wine, can I have your honey?”
The bee replied, “Without this, there is no honey.”
I put the lid on, peaceful, the bee flies way, calling me a prude on his way out.
“Stay safe out there,” I farewell.
My life is beginning to be a half decent poem. Even if I cant write one.
I am a servant
I am a garbage man
I am a gardener
I get upset but eventually forgive the rain
I have to find peace with that
me me me me me me me me me me me
