Tuesday, January 24, 2017

"On Top of Spaghetti, My Ol' Meatball Fell -- ."

The cosmos is twisting. Keep this a secret. The cosmos is moving. The entire universe is moving at a break neck speed dodging obstacles and twining into and around itself, perpetually moving, forward, backward upside down, inside out, around and around at a speed so dizzying, so mind blowing, so insane and without rhyme or reason, rhythm or any sort of sense. Just tied up and up into knots of craze. Tangled and twisted and as unorganized and chaotic as to just plain be hopeless. But, yet, yet it is still moving and breathing and going. It still lives in this chaos.

We wonder why our lives are the suffering of the human condition. The freedom and blessing and curse of continual choice. Choices, choices, all endless. And the fear that this choice, this second which is so precious and can never be again, what, what will I do with it? And when I make that choice, what, what if it is the wrong one? What if, what if I am dying and am reliving my whole life and just spend all of it wondering, “Why did I do that? What if I had done that?” The misery of searching for meaning just to find nothing. Simply temporal comforting perceptions of reality necessary to make the insecurity and terror of living bearable. And all these symbols. These words. Do we really think in words or fleeting images? What continuity is there, are we cameras or editors? We continually sniff out meaning, but it’s all just vocal formalities.

We roll out of the cradle, endlessly rocking. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. We roll, and some seem to make their own destinies while others seem to roll along with the flow. And yet, then there are others, lost in the eternal storm that is their life. So sensitive to all the movement of the cosmos that they are thrown from place to place with no control or regard for their well being like a ball on a blanket pulled from all sides by children. We all are balls. Some have guidance; others seem to abandon any sort of guide. We roll along and occasionally bump into one another. Bump and thump and sometimes these are angry confrontations and others are the thumpings of my heart. Beat. Beat, beat. Beat. But these beats. They wear on us. Scuffed and bruised and literally, beaten. Then, the world tilts, and you roll once more.

I am red. At one time, I was a pleasing violet. Simple, quite, elegant. Liked by all. Now, it is a screaming tone. A tone that says, “I DEMAND ATTENTION. YOU MUST VALIDATE MY WORTH.” The color can only exist when other light is thrown upon it. And the color is passion. Love, anger, lust, aggression. Passion. It is free. But I am not free. And knot free I am not. Twisted and tangled in my own musings that roll back into themselves endlessly musing and creating and being, yet producing and showing nothing. It’s the color that throws paint on the walls and screams life into being, like a baby stretching the birth canal, exiting the womb. It’s the blood of the innocent to protect their rights. And it’s the motivation to stay in bed lingering with the touch of hunger for another. Its creation. Its destruction. The beginning and the end of the circle. The feared parts of life and hence the motivation for living. My cheeks are burning red with the embarrassment of simply existing.

I fall. I fall endlessly and hopelessly. Continually again and again I fall. I fall for false ads and false loves. I fall for bad lines and sick jokes. The weight of the world pulls me towards it in the orbit of the continual fires that burn below. The pitchness of the cavern, the endlessness of the crevice that opens up, opens up below me. I await. I await a man, a mother, lover, and father to save me. I await savior and push away auxiliaries. I scream and fall into the arms of love and through the fingers of time. I am a tiny piece of sand slipping, slipping like that time you wore those shoes on the gravel laden cobblestones in the rain. A simple twist you hoped no one noticed. Save you and the broken heel. I fall like that jolt that awakens you in the night. That’s the tingle. That’s it there, right there. That’s the fall.

And I throw back. I fight back and spit in the faces of those that would dare push me. Spit words of endless streams. Rushing words over the boulders of my teeth. The drip of the foaming at the mouth. The barking. The throw it back. Throw it back in their faces and ask the world to judge me. And I throw back. Throw back my head in that I-don’t-give-a-damn laughter. Careless, childlike laughter at the world and all its amazements. At myself, the situation, the life. Throw it back, throw it back. Throw back the small fish to go for the prize. Throw back the bullshit to go for the Truth.

There is so much movement. So much that when I sit for a second to smell some roses a little boy once gave me the world seems to sway side to side and up and down like when you lay your head down after a night dancing with Jack and his buddy Coke. The buzz of the world never stops and sometimes motion sickness sets in, and you want to take something for it, but there’s nothing in the cabinet. No dog, no bone. The needles in the drawer spell AIDS as you roll it open and the D.A.R.E. sticker is a virtuous token. The stranger’s breath smells funny and you pull away to offer just your check, honey. What to do? What to do? It’s youth, it’s life and you only get it once. But Jesus, does it have to be so….well, hard?

And you’re hard. Well, you had to be. To move forward, to still be free. To go on and to live, be successful, do well. Have something to show for who you are. And you still look back, past all the success, past the movement, the glory to all the rest. You still gaze past and see, that you weren’t, you weren’t ever really there for me. And then, then do you wonder, as you stop and stare, for whom did you really care? And this is the choice; this is the question that I asked you before. What do you do when you are faced and choose? For whom did you live for and whom did you love? Whose life is this and whose needs go above? That baby that you made years before, does he still call out for you in the night? Do you feel lonely and shiver in cold whenever nobody calls? Because you too are still human today, and God, God is still far away. And this universe is twisting, this nobody knows. But today, today….well here it goes.

Labels: "On Top of Spaghetti, My Ol' Meatball Fell -- ."

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