posted on 5.29.20 / posted in After

Today is very much like yesterday

It’s because I’m a creature of habit. I also habitually fall back on clichés.

In my heart of hearts (see? that’s 2.) I want to think as little as possible. This is nothing like when I was younger, even just a couple years back, when I could be impressed with my thoughts. I felt a need to share them, as if they were dynamite that could break apart quarries of perception. I had something on my mind grapes!

That internal monologue crap is still in there. I don’t know if it’s finally getting deep sleep for the first time, or all the goddam therapy, but christ I’m sick of that whole reductive apparatus. I know it’s important. I mean, it must be. I trust Oprah. How else do we figure ourselves out?

Has anyone figured themselves out though? I haven’t met anyone. Maybe I have, but how do you broadcast that shit without negating it in the process? The Dalai Lama doesn’t go around talking about how enlightened he is. Of course, he does go around talking about how if there was ever a female Lama, she’d have to be smoking hot. So, seriously, fuck that guy.

My therapist asked me about my “heroes” and after two billably-silent minutes I realized I didn’t have any left. Henry Miller? Still dig the flow, but despite Anïas’ consent, a total Weinstein. I admire each of my friends for at least one quality, but we’re all in the same boat (3). No one stands out front with his or her finger in the air screaming, “Excelsior!”

We just people. Cool.

The only thing I have left lately is art. Humans can create perfection, we just don’t seem to be able to live it sustainably. Maybe it’s the education systems of the world. Or politics. Or the manic quest for love, money, and meaning that claws away at the bonds that should hold us together, prevents us from just being groovy in our own skin.

I wasn’t always in free fall. I’ve slowed things down lately. The wind isn’t pressing my face back into my skull. I can look around and see people who almost seem suspended in air. But they can’t be if I can still see them. The ground is still coming at me. Another few decades before splat, but this is where we’re all headed. Even the ones waiting for their robes and harp.

Some days that’s terrifying, but at least that kind of fear is worth the excursion. So what if you shut out like a light? What do you do with the rest of your tomorrows when you can let that ride shotgun?

Keep your eyes open. Put on some tunes. Move a little. Skip the next thing you feel obligated to do and carve out 42 minutes to hold the head of your inner censor underwater.

Forty Two.

How the fuck is he not dead?