Circular, diamond-studded watch face ticks away minutes, then hours – really seconds that become longer periods of time. It all adds up. We’ve found some way that makes sense to organize and catalog something we call Time. Water sundial, passing of Sun and Moon and Stars. Moving at a mathematically predictable pace. Had to figure it out from the ground up. It’s not my strong-suit, so I’m not sure if I ever could have done it. That’s why it’s all mysterious magical science to me. Some believe in Alien intervention, but I’m not too sure. Doesn’t that shadow the capacity for the human spirit and intelligence? Why should we not believe that we landed on the Moon, built the pyramids, and discovered astrology? It is too easy, and perhaps a cop-out to resign ourselves to “outside intelligence”.
Eyes wandering behind newspaper top, the lift above and scan the casino floor. Something fun and dark. Sunglasses lowered to the middle bridge of the nose, eyes casting downward enhancing the suspicion, the mystery. Drop-top convertible screeches to a halt. Valet hops out and reluctantly hands the keys, having to part with such a beautiful vehicle, the best he’s driven all day. Disagreements as my eyes unfocus. Surveillance cameras watching. Blue raspberry Spiderman popsicle from the ice cream truck. Springboard with the chin tuck at the pool. Slurpee arguments, toeing the line, testing the waters. This watch is not waterproof. Who possibly wears their FitBits so far up the arm like you’re technically supposed to? Fuck the phone, fuck notifications. I don’t want to watch it anymore, check it anymore. Frog in throat, hard to swallow, anxiety in slow-motion. “Watching The Wheels” – John Lennon. Documentaries that are still fresh in the mind hours after watching. “Bird On The Wire” – Leonard Cohen. Some days I just want to close my eyes and be ignorant to the whole thing; Not watch at all. Guardtower. Watchtower. Jimi Hendrix. Guitar reminding us that everything is not okay after all. There is trouble. There is trouble in the water.
Bluish hourglass with open top. Put some fresh-cut flowers in there, or leave it open. The craft of this pottery project – Wet clay, two hands, a kiln, a dream, glaze and paint. The fire smooths and purifies. Dancing outwardly, stillness inside. Stillness outwardly, ricochet pinball machine inside. Bells and whistles and neon screens. The noise and the solace of being lost in some activity that is here and now and perhaps has no meaning. Vase on the coffee table . These things can be built and they can break. Sobbing, the sound emblazoned in memories of haunted objects in a home. I will need to find a new way. Down spiral wooden staircases that lead to empty wine cellars and old black and white movies with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. Was the world ever right? Does history just smooth everything over – like glaze and kiln? Panic attacks in little cycles. Little amplitudes, waveforms, wave patterns. Scared to look. When the big to bubble I wish them away, but that genie has long gone. Adored photos on walls. Fixer-upper house. I can still feel the grooves in the old hexagonal tile, the creak of the tan linoleum floor. Splashing lifesource. Ships in bottles setting sail to nowhere. Please let these eyeglasses be the one. Please let this just be an adjustment period. Impatience and anxiety make for a miserable cocktail. Sterility, hospital bed and gown. Totally cancelled out by whatever they’re serving for dinner on this floor. Reminiscent of convalescence and nursing homes. Shatter, break, and crack – A million pieces scattered and now we have to gather them all up, mourn this lost piece of art. It was accidental with universal purpose. Sometimes we move too quick for our own good. Get caught in emotion, talking with our hands, moving our bodies too freely. Look what can happen. Spin and smash like I’m the Hulk, or Donkey Kong.
We have tamed a wild weed in the South. It grows here and nowhere else (maybe). There is a blood history behind it. Drenched in cash and profit and exploitation of human beings and their rights. Hot, humid summers – How many passed under the aversion of God’s gaze? Dry, cotton mouth. Dehydrated water supply. It’s all just air around me now. Expired breath, ghost mist. Fog on a mysterious morning where I drop my knees and thank God in fear; For fear if I don’t, I too will not be spared, I too await the blade of an axe from the angel of Death; Jump off the mountain, or be somewhere at the wrong place, at the wrong time. The opposite of luck: Unfortunate circumstance. What becomes common place smooth fabric, has a long journey ahead. There is a method and a process. Plantation that has history we must reckon with, must acknowledge, must accept guilt and complicity. Vultures caw hollow, searching for the remains of the missing. Missing memories, lost in some black hole of Alzheimer’s Disease, some black hole of dementia. They circle and spiral inside. Perhaps their outlines remain, but the coloring book remains devoid of color. The smell of manure, fresh mulch. Earthy tones and senses. If I were a child in the field, I would want to hide in the shade of a tall stalk, or the shade of my mother, so I could sleep in the heat and stay tucked away out of trouble, and not be afraid of bugs so that when a little fly lands on my arm, I will barely notice and not spoil my calm quiet. The wind doesn’t blow, doesn’t answer calls. There’s just the answering service, and if there is an emergency, just run. And keep running; Make the wind move for you. Kick up your bare feet and cuffed jeans. Kind of run where you stick out your stomach and hips and just bolt, just go for it. Leaves on trees get rustled as you brush past. Heavy breaths and pants until you can no longer take it anymore, slowing down to a stop bent over, hands on thighs, leaning forward. Gasping.
Heavy weights where arms feel like Jell-O. Lime Jell-O. Wiggly and bright green, like a 1960s space race. Powdered Tang and dehydrated ice cream sold for an exorbitant amount of money at the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, FL – All to pretend that we are just like the astronauts too. Unsung heroes of beyond the skies. Knowledge is not enough, but your body must be put through a physical ringer. I could not handle the nausea, the sick, the equations. I shouldn’t even eat the ice cream.
Have we wasted precious metals on weight lifting? Shouldn’t those be melted down to become something else? Are they recyclable? Heavy, sweating, gym stink, wet socks. Blue mats from karate class, the basement stench of punching bags, rubber and foam. Swinging chains from hooks on low ceilings. Cold metal slipping from my hyperhidrosis hands. They sweat in protest now. Middle fingers to humidity forever. This is my story, I’m writing it, yet beholden to truth even if it does not help me. Even if it does not put forth some preferred narrative. Black weighted ends and that are not friendly. Dumbbells vs. Dumb Belles. The clang as they are removed from their holsters and the forceful clang and bang as they observe gravity making their way down, too heavy for their carriers. Expelling energy, grunting, losing control. To increase muscle tone, to suffer through soreness, to become someone and carve out the marble we were meant to be like we’re our own Michelangelos, hand near chin. Biceps call out in protest. These hamster wheel habits are not what we signed up for. And what is the point of it all anyway? To gain strength? To lose flab? To increase the production of endorphins? We pick and choose the truths that make sense to us. My ankles ache from over-exertion. I must treat them with kindness and respect. Our bodies are not here for long. Meteor dust in space, knowing all I can to survive on this, my home planet, in this solar system. “A Spoonful Weighs A Ton”. Catastrophic willingness to be alive. Hurricane incoming and spinning. It looks like a silent movie from orbit.
Electric ukulele strums at the dawn, catching waves and mountain peaks mixed with sunshine sunrise on every sound wave. A Hawaiian Call to Prayer. Breezes are gentle here, the climate is temperate, the sun is warm. The waves are sea-through blue and there is a little glint in your eye, but not of the sun; It is mischievous and playful. And as we lie in this hotel bed, disturbed only by strips of light coming through the ends of the darkened curtain betrayed by its ends where the empty balcony lay, starting to get warmed, I close my eyes and internally wish for five more minutes. The ceiling fan propels quietly, circulating the air in this room that is only a few notches below stifling. You know you must make some excuse. A knock at the door, almost on cue. Hopping up as if propelled by a bolt of electricity, you grab the white terrycloth robe that lays on the chair and tie it around your waist. The knock sounds again. The palm tree wallpaper lines the hallway like a runway to the door. There are coconuts hanging from each one. I wonder if Willy Wonka would subscribe to the idea of scratch and sniff and taste coconut wallpaper. Just to be sure, you approach the design, but as your about the scratch, get distracted by the water stain on the ceiling, snapping yourself back into reality. The knock again. Avoiding the obvious. Not wanting to open that door and have it be some dumb conclusion. I think I must get better at going down to the mine and pick-axing away, even when it gets uncomfortable. Kerouac, though remarkable, and not comparable to whatever this is, could only get so far. But I know nothing. Just some layman’s common knowledge. Tripping over my own feet in the hotel room. Lover stirs and turns in bed. Glancing back, not wanting the dream to be over.