On the Issue of Life

If life be made of smoke,
Then in every breath will like
The very virtues of the mind,
Fashioned no more than in a deadly white

What is made in the air,
Exists not in words or forms,
But rather, makes clear itself,
In the breath in which is born

So carried away the sense
Of validation and existence,
That in immaterial things,
Finds most its solid substance

And if the living
Can be transformed visible to the eye,
Though may be killing, ask though
What more can the soul be satisfied?

5.32

To be completely honest, I'm so fucking tired. I'm so tired of images. Images of nothing I want to see; images of nothing that means anything to me. Fuck this shit.

I wonder sometimes how much "home" has changed. Maybe I won't even recognize home anymore. Where I used to spend idle hours is no longer there...where I used to think was part of what was to be expected is no longer there.

At the end of the day, there's always that one place where you are ultimately supposed to be. For me, it's not here. For me, it's a pier that no longer exists - except for in the very recesses of my mind. The ever-changing familiarity.

So maybe I'm still a little ambivalent. But there's no doubt about certain things. The absolute certainty of a purple morning. The absolute being where you are supposed to be. Maybe I'm still not sure...but at least I am.

I'm so done.

How I Love

Thank God for whatever didn't.

I miss New York already. Zabar's. I miss the cold air. Slim girls walking big dogs; big guys walking small dogs. Riverside Park in the mornings. Walking 10 blocks for a magazine. Reading Julia Child in bed, falling in love with Paul. The smell of Crumbs. Downtown transfer sheets. Walk down West End, walk up Broadway, walk down Amsterdam, walk up Columbus...and do it all over again. Hello. "Wow" the lake - girls in pastel dresses, old folks with teacups and party hats. Alone. I LOVE.

Thank God for whatever didn't.

Icky.

Can you believe it?

Oh, it's starting up again. I can feel it. Another one, another one. It's those quiet mornings. The fluctuations are too much but too familiar. I don't lie and I don't bother. I'd rather glue myself to images of the Lake from now on and never want for anything else. And the world's smallest details. Yellow flowers. Yes - no thank you anymore. And probably no thank you forever.

Thank God for whatever didn't.

Wonder how it went. I always seem to be. And it's not even that I ask for it...it just so happens that way. That's probably not good. Maybe I should try staying still for a while...maybe I need to stay still. Third. But I don't seem to want it when I'm not. I guess it's all in the name. Conversation is easy as hell if it is. And I really am not joking about it - thank God. Let's not pretend - I was absolutely uninspired when I made it to Strawberry Fields. Maybe I'm tired...and the bird has flown.

All You Need is Love...