Idea: having an emergency at the Emergency 1/4 Mile sign.
Idea: having an emergency at the Emergency 1/4 Mile sign.
And the fireflies.
Now the years are rolling by me
Always struggling to find ourselves right here, right now – missing it.
Random thoughts, or, chewing the re-entry scenery
Racket sounds off from both ends of the house the heat pump + the refrigerator are rehearsing for their rap group audition for little carnegie playhouse but I'm terrified to let them both in on that lcp has been defunct + dejunked for years my mistake + so i whorling out of any control i go into van eyck mode except not by painting detailed pupils into the eyes of pinhead sized figure sitting in boats + floating on water but spiraling into the details of guilt shame + other dark human condition type thingies remembering every wrong i have ever done to anyone any thing every mistake + insult to the artistic aesthetic i have ever made every one every single one this goes on for a way too long till this dreaded interior psychotic evil will’s fading + i recover in the early hours from the pain + remember again like all the previous springtimes a portable table will be placed over the heat pump clamped down gingham draped creating an outdoor nook to welcome afternoon tea time + so there in a few weeks the baton will be completely handed over to the fridge + the heat pump will take a long rest from its tireless heating as the fridge takes on labored cooling with it’s own brand of ennui whining pitch for attention who knows what these souls think?
The dawning weather turned unseasonably cold so the pump hummed along diligently never stoping this night the rumble transforms into a biplane engine as i circle ellis island looking down on a gray landscape there is a predawn shadow shaping suspiciously into the likeness of a refrigerator the liberty woman is perched on with her incriminating left eye sealed shut + in her right hand she twirls an hour glass saying we can talk as long as what is left of sand as she flips the glass like a coin + only a moment of sand remains + it’s gone as it crashes to the rocks below oh well she says we can talk anyway what is it you came for but you must salute me three times + do six jumping jacks before she’ll answer counseling that i am motionless strapped into the cockpit she then waves a very rehearsed + overused annoyed never mind + turns to watch the sunrise.
Nothing to report except that something in the far room is trying to get all the attention ah the refrigerator is competing with the heat pump making a horrible noise chewing the scenery with random buzzing on off on off on on off off like a morris code signaling random metamorphose imagery wanting to alarm someone without triggering the part of the brain that will decode seizures + dressed up like a veteran vizier with a black belt + black collar + just the best black costume ever for a refrigerator begins making her way toward the grand outdoors toward the heat pump + he with fists up imaging himself in my imagination to be a stumpy scrappy boxer ready for the fight lifts himself from his foundation + begins the arduous journey forward navigating into lucidity i lift my head + see a mental chalk line in the center of the room the central spot where the two would meet + showdown but no upon meeting they will bow + waltz + i will glance away like interrupting a private moment … i awake cursing to a widening gyre of brightness dawning on my closed eyelids it was quiet too quiet like missing santa i had sleep through the dance + now all is settled back in for now til tonight + communication is often more complicated than this.
The pump began a basso profondo splat ticking as in my transfigured dream of actors marched on deadline along side them picasso is dressed like the riddler circa 1955 penning his mark with a spray can onto corrugated cardboard + handing them out to the lineup for a french theater piece entitled the entitled pygmalion each person brandishing a graffiti sign enigma stating that time had stopped + asking which ocean will rise i spring awake seized with the impression of the heat pump backing up + flooding the muddy hill my little room a cork in the drift turning three times jumping twice overturning into a bluegrass riff in my head from an alternative universe i lived through as this trilogy of tunes go together kicking + screaming i become aware of nightmares that make much more sense than this dosing back off the exaggerated ticking now a thunderous menacing clock creeps in through the window terry + i are working a triage tent using patches taken from our jeans as tourniquets that miraculously grow back as fast as they are torn off we work fast to bandage people together sending them on their way sometimes into waiting rooms sometimes onto operating tables sometimes back out through the in-door the infuriating rhythmical ticking continued as my mind animates the sound reciting prose or channeling percussioneque words OR literary devices written down in the fog lost forever OR a bullet list of projects listing themselves OR a non-sequitur flip book the size of an encyclopedia OR switching the tv from channel to channel OR a long toenailed dog scampering across a wood floor OR rodin’s thinker tapping his fingers on his marble knee over + over + then it is dawn. As dawn will.
The tune of the heat pump screeched a friendly chickadee’s song as she happily easily leapt from person to person onto heads + shoulder + hands + head + on + on coming towards me - she landed on the top of my head + immediately got tangled in my hair i was in need of assistance because i could not see to help free her she screamed calling in a cloud of locust swarming like a pit crew insisting on rotating the crop of ideas determined to dissolve + take back a concept that was never that great to begin with.
Frozen rain fell at midnight + melted off of the heat thingy at warming dawn below the window making tink-tinkling of a table top mini waterfall hitting the surface of patterned bricks inside my minds dream eye reinterpreted as water leaking through a ceiling from upstairs the tap tap tap source hunted down to the origin a cracked belly of a toilet easily patched i continued information gathering by following the meander of the leak back down down through the house + with watercourse converting + growing larger the farther i descended the path eventually believing it had it’s own destination + determination seeing a shut-off spigot i turned the handle strangling the water supply but it had been too late i turn to see behind the room afloat fucktangent wicking water over + over melting low walls again + again opening the line of site my stream of consciousness turned into an ocean current of the atlantic with a cruise ship zooming away into a ginormous which is actually 40’s military slang void i hang my head as i had been so very sill lily worried about curtains on the titanic.
The heat pump’s extended off-cycle allowed dreaming slumber + revealed a night drive in a truck with improved windshield framed with proscenium + sculpted curtains + animated every street sign every billboard every car zooming past hit me with surreal sharpness lit by high-beam headlights blinding blurred eyes + head swims to stage right as I hear a pop + wheeze i struggle to hang on to the steering wheel concentrating on the tires grounding with the road pull off safely back stage now huddled at a flat rear wheel for a time-out gaining composure til a mild trace of the mind twisting + acclimated to this new way of deciphering through my energy i hear nothing but variations of motown sounding off through a half dead walkman the flat beat boomed inside me + lost my will + obeying the air-splitting rhythm awaking a ghost inside my chest an ancestral phantom who had danced this dance a thousand years ago this morning it pulled me away from the dead tire + into the illusive backdropped dark forest to join wantons gathered about a fire lost in a swaying trance dance i hope for nothing i fear nothing i am free epitaph written on foreheads leaping sultry sfumato + fire bits + oh then sitting dejectedly in the smoke filled air a few little sisters inside their minds of luxury glass + beamy hi-rise condos with running hot water + safety locks + a tv screen as large as manhattan + they saw me + oh so cooly politely rolled their eyes turned their heads to each other + pecked + clucked to keep warm re-evaluating the future every three minutes in the best of neighborhoods a heavy mist coincided with the fire dissolving into lucid dreaming as unexpectedly how else from up high up a tree the on-cycle fan kicked in + their flickering small hateful embarrassed eyes look up up + away along with the steam of water snuffed flames i think how much more interesting the dilapidated heat pump would be 100 years from this as it is easier to make an interesting picture beautiful than to make beautiful picture interesting.
The swamp thing awoke me on its recurring cycle of heating + relaxed spinning + creaking with off-balanced ticking like a card in the spokes of a stingray with a sissy-bar like a timer on a bomb reinterpreted by an echoic gloopy dream mixed with a kind-of reality like a re-engineering in mind as the radio station droning traffic conditions explaining for traffic you need a lot of cars you need too little road you need someone fishing under the seat for a lost cassette upon investigation the heat pump’s metal fan box revealed a thin but hampering frozen-over casing — not loosened by a verbal cuss coaxing whoa to the legion of decency nor swinging of a rubber mallet — on the third chance to remedy a heat-gun flashed to mind i hooked up an extension cord then i hooked up an extension cord then i hooked up an extension cord to make it within reaching distance blasting hot air aiming at the sinister hi-pitched warbling sound that smells of cat litter + base elements holding fast eventually beginning to melt then backed away as the alarming noise pitched up + felling reduced to a low roar of a smaller scared animal easily taken + understood being less than what it had been it worked swell for a bit after that i hit my toe so hard on a table leg as to retch without vomiting + the bed had gotten cold but if i was given the native american name shoots-hot-air-at-her-heat-pump-at-midnight it was well worth it.
During the winter of my discontented heat pump.
Waking this morning i vaguely remember dreaming in darkness the sound of the heat pump invading my consciousness having noised off every half hour or so + the paying of the dreaded utility bill came into my rolling mind condensed along with vivid memories of an iron maiden thump thump thumping with bruised tar laden lungs with distorted breath triggering + shuddering — oh my — this tactful conditioning we have of a sound modifying itself into our mind that will plummet whatever hope of leveling the playing field for the coming day + as it is barely cold enough outside to leave a watery frost on the inside of the windows that i have quilted over opaque for the rest of the wintery part of the year yet still needing to plant a bit of spring when there is a break to 41 degrees on saturday.
Circa '94 - Caught cross-training, bewildered
somewhere in Hong Kong...
Fire-ready-aim; The ability to start before you are altogether ready in order to initiate a beginning
... with these folks.
Are art forms still viable forms of learning, amuse/ment, or escape? Why is it important to have fun or forget all this worldly world. And, really, should we? The compassionate response is so fleeting, when there s so much to be done. Overwhelming. How large does a hole need to be to crawl into it? Meher Baba was silent for 40 years - until his death. He believed there has been enough talk - time to live it. Thinking this is only impressive if you decide, and then live for 40 more years. would it have been so great if he had taken the silence vow and then got hit by a truck two days later? Oh wow, he didn't talk for two days before he died!