hesitant thought flows in the spider-house in Austin


I
the minute of sentence is to speak this essence of what i see, what i seek, in the connection of infinite possibility that lies in the loss of what cannot be held anyway, to fly, as it were, into a space of play within the elements of what are, to sail with a given wind in a given direction ever always beyond my control; there are times in my life when the current eddies into a swirl of whirlpool stasis, when it seems that i cannot even feel, let alone express, the emotions which bestir the depths of my conciousness. and i act in ways that would appear to me to be counter to everything in which i thought i believed. but here is this spark, catching, fanning the flame of my fingers against the keys of a language that at times is like scratching against a wall, inert, cold, laden with rhetorical adjectives. . .
II
where is this deep place of integrity within you that lies so unknowably beyond language? in the flurry of drunken information that passes so swiftly in the form of money, you wake up into tomorrow half-way spilling over into endless gaps of a nameless suffering, like batter on a waffle-iron, burnt into a patterned shape molded for consumption. it is from the depths that emotions rise, filtered, bubbled eventually into expression, displaced, floating like the plastic piece inscribed with words in a fortune-telling 8-ball, the writing on the wall on the backs of your eyeballs twisted into your mind into an image that platters out of your tongue to be served into a wind of breath and sound into the space of the world. you project an image of yourself onto a plane of endlessly successive images, in the hope that somewhere out there in the darkness there is someone who can pick you out and understand you, and look into themselves and discover a language of themselves in which they can craft a response back to you, into you, to build a platform of a new perspective out of all of the emptiness that surrounds. . .
III
what i am trying to say is that i’m fumbling like an idiot in the darkness with a pen, trying to write myself into everything i come up against. but there are these feelings that i have in myself that i haven’t learned yet how to define. and i come stumbling across these vast new fields of perception in other people, and i suddenly no longer know who i am again, and i am like a child, struggling to place my flurrying emotions into articulation. where am i? who am i? my tongue flutters in my mouth like tree leaves in the breeze–ultimately untranslatable, more of a momentary feeling that passes into the next block as you drive by on your way to your destination.
and yet. and yet. there is definitely this light in my gut that i can feel emanate out my eyes, despite the endlessly blind progression of passerbys: i find it in the dive bar smoke stippled scene, in the live wire plunge of practiced instruments attuned to my attention, listening to the formations of what i have never before heard, i find a sense of redemption in the patterns of loving, brave people who have left their societally defined selves behind, who stand before us weaving strange new threads of wonder, a multi-colored universe in which we are fully embraced if we choose to be, if we can let go of our fear and plunge forward into motion: a place in which there is no judgment, there is no holding back, there is no dissociation of beauty from that which is all around and here and now. i strive to reach this place with my haphazard happenstance words, with my frantic urgent need to connect to you across this physical distance, to reach that within me which is most true, most beautiful, and most worth sharing with you.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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