letting down

Because it’s not the stars in your eyes that bother me, those I love and cherish and adore, the beautiful nuclear flame I can’t touch. My hair is wet and I look down to see it looks like I’ve been crying, a small constellation of damp drops have gathered in my lap. There is a river trapped in my heart, the gates are closed. Lines of prose inspiration breathing from my mind in the dark don’t help very much, it’s not my own imagination they attack. I only want to hold your hand and fall into sleep.

Nine Planets Without Intelligent Life.

Nicole and I are going swimming today. I put on my bathing-suit and was struck by the image of a line of men in army uniform dancing in a ballroom with a row of women in evening dress bathing-suits. Formal steps, movie magic. Glittering straps and flower bracelets strapped to their wrists. Somewhere I want this to happen. Even if I never see it, even if I never know that it existed, I think it would be a gift. We need more surreality. We require wonder to live this world.

Some people say magic is dying, but I believe that we’re entering an age of technological mystics. What scientists do with cells is past our fiction, the education of the modern philosophy is still learning to throw away our christs and replace it with stepping on the moon last century. Dreamers are shifting focus, finally creating something that we can all hold onto to. There’s a melody to the breadth of it. Music carrying ideas to infect precisely where it needs to be, spread it. Dissemination of information is sexy if you let it be. I’m tired of the stigma attached to reading, I’m tired of minding illiterate children. My eyes are ruined for all the words. I could go blind but it’s worth it. We’re living history today and I need to find it.

she says only: “to walk, alas, to fly upon these human efforts, and actually climb”

I want the rain to nail the sky to the streets tonight and take me with them. I can’t stop shaking. Where is my breath?

To walk, alas, in endless rain, to by wet from the moment of flying forth. It’s too much, you and your rain. It’s this city I swear. Your reign, my heavenly learning. Thine sword – soul hung out to dry somewhere else. Now I only have to find it.

Sorry. I thought you dropped it.
about 5:30 on the 12th

Now. That is going to be hard to fly to. I’m not sure the airport will listen. That’s the best I can do. I’ll wander empty shelled until then, I suppose, assuming that time is circular. Cyclical. Either/or. Never circular. Those are two different things. The circumference is what I’m curious about, how long must I go without? We speak of different things.