There’s no parking in my neighborhood so the cars circle the block like jellyfish caught in a toilet bowl. (yeah, I know! What the hell are jellyfish doing in a toilet bowl??? but people buy them when they’re small and cute and then throw them away when they’re big and hard to handle and they don’t want them anymore. It’s a terrible epidemic. Don’t buy baby jellyfish, folks!)
So here I am watching cars going around and around and I’m thinking that life is a big ol’ circle of sorts — when we’re young we piss our pants and when we’re old we poop them — and if you start to head West you’ll eventually come from the East, right back to where you were, but you’ll be a different human being, with different cells, and different hair follicles, and your teeth will be a shade more yellow and maybe, maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll be a smidgen wiser, but you’ll still be on the same old Earth.
I don’t go on walkabouts, I go on drive-abouts, I get in the car and lose myself in the great American Wild, the Strip Malls and Fast Food hinterlands. I once thought my nose was broken but it turned out to be just the onset of a giant pimple. I have a vanilla candle that I like to light in the morning and drink coffee and spend that time trying to figure out what it means to light candles and drink coffee.
If you think of your life as a long swim, would you ever leave shore? But if you think of it as a soak in the hot tub, well, what kind of life would that be? I think of these kind of things in between thinking about the candle and before pondering the coffee, before slugging the caffeine I make a deal with the sun that if it’ll let the moon alone tonight I will be a good subject and sacrifice a baby jellyfish in its honor. (Yes, I’m the one that flushed the jellyfish down the toilet bowl!) Then I take a sip and wonder how they extract so much goodness from a little bean grown in the hills of Central America.
The candle flickers as the breeze tosses the air particles about and time waves its hand over the room. The sky is festooned with pillowy clouds that Bob Ross might draw on some seascape canvass. It’s a beautiful day and I’m enjoying it from my laundered, pilfered time capsule… typing mindtrappings of a 32 year-old… pondering vastness of a unfettered life. Last night’s Pinot Noir tought me a lesson about love and poetry and how the two rarely go together.
We were up all night talking about candles and wine and now the morning comes full circle with the coffee and I realize I’ve walked around the Earth and I’m just the same as when I left… and really, that’s okay.
If you knew there was no way to perfect, would you really want to change?
And like that, it’s lunch, and I contemplate walking to Subway as I realize there’s no great Eastern Sun — it’s just a giant yellow Lite-Brite surrounded by blue cloth. And the oceans are a fish tank with plastic men in diving bells…
Did you know I used to write poetry about the moon being a lost hubcab and my heart being a tire well? And you the car we both fell off of?
Reality has its own timer.
Your mind is an alarm clock.
Some things just present themselves when they’re ready.
Metaphors wane from want… the cars continue to circle… I’ve highlighted Leaves Of Grass.
The objects of this world weigh more than the world itself.
Good morning. Good night.