110503 – Birthday wish for your beacon or lessons how to waft.

In Uncategorized on 110503 at 2154


An open letter to my extant pals, as i arch toward pragmatism and subsequently tear a tendon,

Tomorrow i turn thirty-one. To boot, i’ve been “downtrodden”, more than a bit. I’m not normally the sort to wave a calendar date in the wind like some flag; each nation is imagined by borders just as each year is a unit signifying several hundred days and some seasons. And though there is some truth to that odd cosmic revolution which sentimentalists think evokes epic boundaries, i want each moment considered on its own. Unfortunately, i have been in such a strange whir lately that these moments have lost their boundaries, and time has become an either-nothing-or-everything blandness. I’m trying real hard to break out of this.

Maybe i myself am some other sort of sentimentalist. I certainly hold great value in my connection to all of you. I simply wish i had the time and peace of mind to put the pinwheels and lavender sprigs and sundry other ornamental whimsies of my imagination upon on the lapels of the dreams of our collaborations which ceaselessly percolate and untether me from the discrete duties with which a responsible adult is typically efficient. Please know that my fondness for all of you swells just as my kitchen floor collects the gravelly broken acorn shards of distraction which this somber squirrel not-mindfully he-himself has strewn about.

Fear not, i will never marry to the receding shadows of morbidity (but may i take a portrait of the foggy colossus, at an oblique angle, under dusk’s queer hypotenuse; or lean under the flicker of the rustic gaslamp as i form a modern prayer and jot in my list-journal all the things i know i’m not?), and moreover i have long had a steadfast optimism (before George the Second ruined the word (and the world)), and i am eager to set myself on a straighter path, not for the ordinances of the right-angle-only world of cardboard boxes, but to rather aim me closer to those galas in my mind which i pray we will both be at in neon rayon plucked from Frank-Oak-Berk’s eclectic freeboxes. I peer up at the castle’s parapet and hope to ascend someday, so that i may wildly infloresce with tufts of art and the mellifluous odors of a beecolony’s diligence. My sorrow is that, despite intent, i and my deeds may not nudge the frail idiocy of our machine-aeon fallacy one slender and honest micron back toward the benevolent realm of logic (yet of poesy) and of kindness and health and justice and ecology. I have not lost my proclivity to savor reverberant timbres as they echo, nor to appreciate the handsome provocations of a nuanced peach-and-teal-and-tan color-palette, but, i confess and hark, i have been largely inactive.

It is thus that i request from all of you sweet owls and swans an earnest entreaty for a strange sort of birthday present:

Please offer me nothing tangible (lest you donate fiscal digitals to the campaign to free my friends from their ill plight as symbolic hostages by the governance in Iran – query the computer using the keyword “freethehikers” to follow up on this ask), but rather please offer me a sincere and moist Medjool date from your transcontinental rucksack; a monocle to peer at hope like how i once would saddle myself through the lemony goldenrod’s spring revival amidst the high desert’s plant adversity; or perhaps offer a tender sliver of your finest appellations, just a dram, a morsel of advice or recommendation. I need not any plain “cheer ups”; like formulaic notecards it would, in truth, proclaim instead an emptiness. And if i overwhelm thee with my oddity, faretheewell; I have never been afraid of my idiosyncrasy. But what i lack yet want are tactics, to reach the highest limbs of the avocado tree without thinning the discs as i crook back my neck. How do i make stew without burning the pot? How does one ever coax a cream-colored countertop to remain somewhat white, keep the junkmail sternly admonished, the wisps of plastic bandage-backings out of sight?

I am lost in the labyrinth of mundanity, and stand aghast at the mirror, for the first time with notice of the purple droop under my narcolept’s eyes. I have been in exile from myself all along, bullied into denial until now i admit finally: i have heretofore been suffering a lifelong malady silently, this clinical inattentivity. Quite literally, i must learn how to not scratch each perpetual itch, to find the thumbtack without the need to squint from among my messy crayon drawer strewn with staple rails and paperclips. How, without grumble nor prattle, do i hold myself accountable for the tasks i promise all people i will complete? I want to be swift, yet float on every waft. I yearn to be prudently rich, to delete all instances of my inefficiencies, before i get fired, before i am too old to sally these bones on the train to neighbor cities or bike trek across the lava basalt without worry or complaint.

I invite in this new numeral which i must remember all month to name myself with, and beckon, oh aging, i want to cower no longer, bring me the coherence i earn with such a backlog of fine wishes, not this harrowed complexion, not confusion! & yet, i know not how i will make myself remember that, if ever were i fit to be claimed by a date, i set before myself a destiny to bake earthy crumpets, with each of you, and for you, and for your children, ad infinitum until this empire of thinkers deflates the teeming planet or is jettisoned.

Much laud to you comes apoke up out of my frustration and being sad,
Thanks for being beaconly,

  1. the record(s) of the week are excellent:
    Locsil, “First Narrows”,
    Marsen Jules, “Herbstlaub”.

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