I’ve never been good about people leaving. I don’t understand the concept of it all; partially because I’m convinced in thirty years it’ll take me seventeen minutes to get from New York to Hong Kong and partially because for every time somebody’s told me exactly what to set my mind to I keep imaging a beachfront haven for all the palm trees blown and knocked about from an October Hurricane; I can only fathom the act of leaving as a blip and because of it I find the whole mess of it rather… well, unfathomable.
It’d be nice if there was a vessel of sorts to transcend the clouded Californian Cream Cheese of a last resort and pass on by through every circle of every haven belonging to every single fern and hamster, kudzu vine and blue whale, but.
For all purposes that vessel comes about the moment we’re unaware of what unawareness even means.
so that circle drives me down.
And drives me away.
And pulls me into an extra hundred sit ups and push-ups all the while blasting movie soundtracks with minimalist piano and shaking cello. The dissonance of the music and the extra bead of sweat trolling down my brow marks catharsis; I don’t imagine or think of anybody or anything, just the quake and the compression and the rarefaction of my abdomen and my ass and my shoulder blades. My vision suddenly squares away and I’m able to see the blackened corners of my vision that figure into my own interpretation as the morning canopy in the Blue Ridge Mountains, hidden in the fog. Branches barely visible for enough time for me to realize that they’re just vorticose.
Like I’m wearing goggles.
And sound is just the air and vision is just the fallen spotlight of particles hitting the back of a mechanical ball, systemized and programmed to transduce actuality to interpretation to interpreted actuality.
And my stomach quivers and gags on its own vile at the very thought that everything I’ve been putting into it’s been an interpretation too.
A man I knew died today. Left behind a mother and a five-year old son.
He had taught me a lot about writing. A lot about being precise. A lot about being economical. We shared a couple of beers. He had patted me on the back as he walked to class last thursday. I figure he’d seen me upset about something else.
They say he got sweaty and shaky in class and that he’d said a couple of times that he didn’t feel so well.
A lot of my friends have cried but I’ve found myself taking in as much food as possible. To the point that I feel like a bubble. Maybe it’s so that I feel grounded in knowing that something about what I’ve experienced was real and affecting me. The weight of it all; the immediate tangibility of immobilization.
Though the taste is gone, that’s gone in a matter of seconds.
The weight in the stomach, that stays, and eventually becomes a part of everything you’re assuming to be real.
I feel humbled about this, though I don’t know why.
I figure it’s because I’ve come to accept the corner that my perception’s fallen into, ultimately. Though now, I’m figuring at one point or another I’ll be able to find the awe in all of that. At least I hope.