Perhaps answers in silence, the gray area outside of argument, beyond belief systems instilled in us (systems, what we believe). Something more radical than “reform.” Action? When has anyone ever acted, not merely of conviction, but with consequence? I recall only cacophony. Our imagined “right” to call noise music when we were young things with immortal bodies, stoned on our bicycles past midnight. Invisible cricket chorus; pleasant score. Done now, well and be done with it for good.
Were we ever outside the arena? All that star gazing, consumed by anxiety, futurity, desire. Reached for “good life.” Our delicate fix. Learned our lines and towed them, dreaming guns and type-writers, mechanical genius of The Nation. Stuff and Nonsense. Stuff, stuff and more stuff. Ter-rif-fic.
Dear Diary: today I mourn the vanished. Vanquished. Synonymous, no?
Lies, lies, promises: “once I’m settled again I’ll send for you, dear, and the children,” such such such and so forth.
Anyway who can afford all this beginning-ness, everything always new, not improved? Upgraded. Maybe a few corrections. Slight
Send it back, all of it. We haven’t got all day, or all that many days. Call the supervisor. Demand the earth stop spinning. Talk, talk and more talk. Demand balcony tickets to the stars. Demand warm beds on which to plot beginnings. Real this time. Death is the song played over and over, Death and his brother, Work.
I refuse to labor for cavilers and creeps. For what will I be rising and for whom and why? I get eye-strain. I have cramps. I’m claustrophobic and this cubicle is killing me. All I ever do is reach for phones. Enough!
I was green yesterday, today I’m blue. Tomorrow maybe brown as mud. I’m thin. Not too thin. But thin. Why shouldn’t I expect the world?
In reverie I vanquish, always.