24 December 2011
superstitious shit, 2011
i have the privilege of rarely looking over my shoulder though i do still stuff money in my bra should it be late at night. i am tethered to nothing except the pull of family and friends and rent and some sort of competition with myself where respect, acceptance, and faith are concerned. i have ambitions that are clearly attached to place, i have my images though there are still many to be created and these show me either in the jungle or on some rue where atget set his huge camera down and showed me what P.O.V. was, confused though i was for years and years...i know of course that that was then and this is now - and that is, i suppose, why i shoot sling shots, cat eyes, chains, daguerre himself, some kid on my street, "trash," debris, the remains, or myself. this is now, yes. that was then, yes. harder than you'd expect to detach yourself from. i also picture quiet white, other whites, but in a pallet more rosy than blue. i expect these things will happen when they are supposed to - the tricky thing is to trust that this is yours, and that your legs will take you where you need to be. if body has a memory, i wonder what mine remembers of me. some claim there is no time line i must adhere to, that i have nowhere to be but here, that i am not relegated to hitting marks like some life-as-target-practice, though i think they say this to comfort those who want as i want. what is want, actually? what is want actually seeking? in a world of monkeys i still want to do as i see others do, but this is preposterous because don't we all cry quietly into our pillows at night that we are in fact utterly unique and "worthy" - an individual? i believe there are other docks in which to rest after reaching, that i'm to face many more storms and meet a million more clingy little barnacles, perhaps a handful of dirty-blond bearded and red-hatted sea captains, a couple of violent, wild king crabs, or some long-haired, unhinged maniacs to whom i give too much or nothing at all...but in the future, in the future, yes, in the future. let us call the future now. all that this crystal ball says is 'village psychic,' you see - the discussion is more interesting than the thing - and the cards fall where they may, as always. this year the tectonic plates that move me or do the opposite - remain - but the irrelevant forces or apparitions that i both thought about too much and also couldn't help thinking about, have ebbed (when it's low tide, the ocean shows what its waves have been hiding). we have modern medicine to thank for this current tide as well as a tincture of bugle weed, tulsi, and lemon-balm, courtesy the herbalist on cortelyou in brooklyn. she is mad at me, but i'm fine with being at odds these days. we born feminine pleasers need not keep this up for another decade...so it's not that i'm poor and therefore superstitious, it's that faith is hard to keep when all you care about is proof. proof of reason, proof i was here, proof we mattered. gah, forget it, see...i have pollock smatterings of pride and triumph, mania as per the usual does still exist, but i embrace them because i know they are not forever. i embrace them as i do the melancholy, these long, rough brush strokes that have painted me as such. as you see here. as proof of. that one's melancholy could have a look, a shape, a personality, a sound, makes it harder to break - but we live with this and many other things, until we depart from here for good; all our belongings, beginnings, and endings already inside of us. everything is everything always and again, on and on, erykah badu, etc. etc. etc., let us just continue forward in that manner so well executed by our faithful legs! tripping is part of the ropes course, and i can see myself resenting not having had a dress rehearsal. so nothing to "do" then, timbaleros, nothing to try and control, prepare for, or mourn over - you're off the hook, forever. feliz año nuevo and all of that bullshit; the crystal ball has nothing you don't.