Archiving in the inventory of momentary decisions. Out in the world again and I realize how much I have changed. How is it that so much can be buried in the dirt still waiting to be unearthed. I see the patterns. I think of The Prisoners’ Round by Van Gogh. What will liberation look like this time?
A fever on the horizon, which can only be cooled by the afternoon breeze. The heart is on fire, truly. Burning still, burning brighter and hotter. And there is nowhere to hide. I feel like everyone can see the wildfires which guide my instincts. Not even the sea air can cure what plagues me.
Everything is happening in the haunted theater with pink light. Dreams are occupying small crawl spaces inhabited by some lost, frantic energy. I have my part to play. Two parts in fact, facing each other, like mirrors which will shatter.
So this is the unseen environment, the true weather of brick and metal. There are secret lives; a man is bent over (unrecognizable) in the pickup on the edge of the street overlooking the freeway. The trees are sparse and uncanny, non-native, like the concrete and the rusted gates and the old signs which once were a birthday of neon. This part of the city looks like it grew out of the bad trip of a midcentury housewife. (I’m imagining all sorts of things as we speak.)
Even with this bust of a summer I still think about the future with an airiness which is borderline giddy. Careful.
Anticipation of a heat wave. I’ve been waiting for this moment. May the summer only get hotter, may the nights emanate a breathless warmth.
I seem to have the energy of a detonated bomb and the love of fireworks. Need to stop being such an emotional arsonist. I can only survive so many attacks of this thin line. It’s like an explosion of the spirit. Burroughs wrote he believed in telepathy. I certainly hope telepathy is real. If it is possible then I need to stop ringing you up in my mind, it’s a bad habit. This is a crisis of the will, a spiritual combustion.