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Tue, Aug. 1st, 2006, 11:02 am
"Towards pleasure..."

Here’s the skinny: there have been a number of groundbreaking movements, shifting, a correspondence within the atmosphere which makes the earth shiver with anticipation… the air is alive. Somewhere in the dawn, answers arose, culled and seasoned, sweet with the nectar of simplicity, and I tasted the light. I was lifted, and set gently down again, no visible changes but for the glow in my eyes. I am ready. Things have been set in motion.

Steps and skips and strides have been taken already. Studying. The How. The When. It’s all coming. Perhaps another minute or so in the virtual timeline… it won’t be long. And what changes! It’s as if there were never a minute to spare, and yet, had I not waited (stalled, hesitated) until now, perhaps the fever would not be as strong. A posse ad esse. The effect is everything. And the effect it has on me, now, is breathtaking.

…Canada.

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Tess is in town! I have an old car named Stanley to thank for that. He is passing into the next world, and she had to come get another ride. It lent a chance for the Other to meet the last of my close (close) friends which he had not yet met. But, due to my persistence (and perpetual badgering), we made it out to Golden last night to create a space for assembly. Random choice: The Table Mountain Inn, and had it not been perfect enough, his lack of ID was completely forgiven by the fact that the bartendress happened to be an old acquaintance from high school. Odd, and good, catching up. It’s certainly been a while, and it’s sometimes astounding (though not surprising) the things Time can do, the splits it can create, and the dapples and plaits it draws with the paths that are chosen. I wonder who the chooser is sometimes. She has a five year old little girl. Divorced. Still wearing black. We have that in common, at least. Tess, on the other hand, went another route. The Yale route. And in another SIX YEARS of hard-earned (and harder-paid) education, she will become a professor at some well-established university. Or be fit to be the curator of some highly recognized museum. Time will tell. Other paths were lighted upon by the 24-year-old divorcee: others from high school. Boy A: loser, no job, still in college, bad grades. Boy B: military, drinks like a fish. Boy C: shaved his long hair, engaged, working at an Information booth at the mall, sharp as a butter knife. Boy D: still smoking weed, married, two children.
I remember why I left that world. Tess and I exchanged glances that seemed to say “how the hell did we come from that?” Divorcee takes the opportunity when the Other excuses himself to use the privies: “Dude, your fiancé is HOT!” “Yes,” I reply, “I think quite highly of him as well.” Time will tell.

I am afraid that I am getting too old. Too old to chase after my dreams. But my best friends, the ones who will be around tomorrow, they slap me and scold me for congering up such silly notions. Dreams, they say, do not get old, they only grown thicker, like wild brambles, maturing into the peaks of their ferocity. Demanding attention. Dreams can die, but not of old age. Dreams only die from suffocation; the result of a host who has forgotten to let them breathe.

One cannot cling to their fears in hopes of scaring off their audaciousness. What a new and brave level of patheticism that will have been achieved the day the masses force all the children to give up their whimsical notions before they have a chance to grow! Nature and nurture will share the role of the oppressor in this brave new world. Blindness will be a convention, and the poisoning of untamed thoughts will be the law. I shudder to think.

Actually, I shudder *not* to think.


This is my cliff. And I’ll jump when I want to.
Ad libitum...