Miserable manic, pacing in a womb of boredom. I am a wretch, though not in the sense of a good and evil but in the way that I wait to know all things and disobey them.
Sitting in imperfect harmony with this chair and these five-star hotel room walls. Wanting always and only what I do not have. Crashing into the darkness of the unknown. Wanting desperately to advert my eyes from the glowing screen and to know surely that I will not be the only one off the street tonight.
If I just had the right words. If I could finally complete the picture of whats wrong with us maybe this would all go away. The burning and the bubbling that pile up and the thing that stares back at me in the mirror incredulously; Meerkats poking angular heads out of my hair to get a better look at the world around me.
But today I should really just be thankful. Today I should recognize the joy of good pens, warm covers, cool rooms, long walks and the rest be damned.
Today I can take the boil and put it on simmer.
A ghost is in my old skin. I have gone off to live somewhere else. Willing to loose it all and stare into the eyes of a madman. Needing to loose it all and swim naked in the eyes of a God I create. A God created in my own image.
Malkovich's door is just a piano shop in Camden Town. I have seen the inside of my own mind. A white piano, covered in newspaper clippings and old magazine photo's. Plastered shellack image collage, a most pulchritudinous thing. It is filled by other pianos. Askew and sideways placed in an awkward room which used to be a stable. Sheet music - all years, all genres - is re-shelved and rebound by staples and their desire to live again. Even the man, perched in the corner, gives me a knowing look and begins to play. Even he knows, this is my place, a room in my infinite house.
And although it should come as no surprise it does, this is about a lot more then just travelling. About more than a simple Thoreauian quest for simplicity or Ginsberg in the rain.
If only I knew where to start. . .
Lately, more different then ever, more so than ever, I feel a worm hole of change opening and pulling at my particulate. Its time to go, its time to go, the other dimension awaits. I see bits and pieces of it now in the face of a chair. A serendipitous moment. A late night or early morning. I can see it in myself, my face, my eyes, my hands. I can see the tides and The Self. Can see a self. Thinking now that not only is there probably something else out there, but this may be something else entirely. Fully realized you slip like a slimy noodle through a sieve. No pain, no anguish, no frustration, just motion and the force of gravity and never return. I've seen them go, you can see it in their eyes. Constantly fresh. Burning themselves up like navel orange rinds on a desert sidewalks; fresh and citric and careless. These indivisible creatures who dispute through passivity what dirt stains their faces. What is grit anyways? When it is under your nails? They can see only and be only because they are in constant transubstantiation. You can't aspire to it. You can't climb up to it or read it in a book. You have to, when the time comes, do as the indivisible do and say yes to the inevitability that is you, that is all around you; that is.
It may mean that you evolve, while those around you continues to revolve in the universe they've created for themselves. It may just be passing in the night. Even now, as you start to push them, you can start to see the holes in the linen. Their skin is not steel and knowledge but a knitted skirt through which the wind blows freely. Through which they are now to be seen as neither as man nor mortal but simply as what they are, a collection of things: skin, bones, tissue, rings, paper, muscle, a sailboat, skis, a slow beating heart, folded bills, purple paint and a fresh pair of underwear. Add one part silica and two parts saliva. Mix well. Kneed and let rise. And all of this stuffed into a button. Round plastic bubbles.
Allons my friend! Loose. Loose this hard button bubble shell and go oozing out into the night. Let them rest and continue popping around, tyring to step over you. But don't ever let them forget, its what's inside-out that counts. This mess will pull you through.
This mess will pull you through.
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