Home
Then again, perhaps *that* could go...
It's suggestive of some kind of reconsideration or insecurity that I'd rather not think about at this moment, drunk and homesick (if homesick could be the word for one's sickness for a home one doesn't know and never has) and mixed as much as my choice of beverage. "What concoction is this?" I wonder to myself as I sway on the balcony, breathing smoke and playing with fire, dodging the bats as they chase each other, round and round. You always know they're coming when the moths dive. God, I love the bats. Such madness in this world as bats delights the guiding child. To be aloof, aloof, aloof. Where is the mother? Who is she? What union could have possibly brought this twisted soul into the liquid existence, to bob such and spin so? Well,
Fuck. The first guessing came in welcome enough that the next felt it should just let itself in. "Hello, dear rum. What games shall we play this eve?" "Why, I think I could come up with something, friend." Yes, you did, did you not? I suppose you wouldn't have been so clever, though, without the assistance of vodka and wine. But you do attempt to take the credit so.
"Close but no cigar, you didn't miss by far." The power of a song by way of parental indiscretion to join with one's fabric. How many of those have I? How many little pieces of myself that I will forever be unable to share, so many little drops of memory, precious precious, to make me me and you not me? Ha! How many different combinations of brain matter do you suppose there are? I mean, at the most essential level. One billion? One trillion? Assuming that there is no soul, no ghost in the machine, that who we are is in our skull, an arrangement of electrical charges and protein pathways, how many of me have lived before or live today, somewhere, separated but by memory? How many times have I been born? After the cancer takes me, will I live again? Would I be me if I hadn't watched my mother dance and scream and play as she did? Would I be me if I hadn't, that one night when I was eight in bed, looked into my best friend's eyes and felt, crushed and elated, brotherly appreciation and love?
No, I suppose not. I might be close, in some ways, but not me in meaning. I have not been born before, will not be born again. Memoria. Though it is fun to imagine that someone has been born or will be born who understands this ranting, who understands why I must do it, abnormally unashamed and at the mercy of impulsion, why I must spit guts without worry of presentation, why I try, again and again, to fail. It's fun to imagine that someone understands that these attempts at failure are the product of my misshapen idea of success. Where do I find success? In finding home, I guess, and *this*, this most inappropriate and uncivilized collection of words, is the only way I know to search for it. What is home? Home is that place, if ever it exists, where you, in sanity and madness, are never crazy.
It's suggestive of some kind of reconsideration or insecurity that I'd rather not think about at this moment, drunk and homesick (if homesick could be the word for one's sickness for a home one doesn't know and never has) and mixed as much as my choice of beverage. "What concoction is this?" I wonder to myself as I sway on the balcony, breathing smoke and playing with fire, dodging the bats as they chase each other, round and round. You always know they're coming when the moths dive. God, I love the bats. Such madness in this world as bats delights the guiding child. To be aloof, aloof, aloof. Where is the mother? Who is she? What union could have possibly brought this twisted soul into the liquid existence, to bob such and spin so? Well,
Fuck. The first guessing came in welcome enough that the next felt it should just let itself in. "Hello, dear rum. What games shall we play this eve?" "Why, I think I could come up with something, friend." Yes, you did, did you not? I suppose you wouldn't have been so clever, though, without the assistance of vodka and wine. But you do attempt to take the credit so.
"Close but no cigar, you didn't miss by far." The power of a song by way of parental indiscretion to join with one's fabric. How many of those have I? How many little pieces of myself that I will forever be unable to share, so many little drops of memory, precious precious, to make me me and you not me? Ha! How many different combinations of brain matter do you suppose there are? I mean, at the most essential level. One billion? One trillion? Assuming that there is no soul, no ghost in the machine, that who we are is in our skull, an arrangement of electrical charges and protein pathways, how many of me have lived before or live today, somewhere, separated but by memory? How many times have I been born? After the cancer takes me, will I live again? Would I be me if I hadn't watched my mother dance and scream and play as she did? Would I be me if I hadn't, that one night when I was eight in bed, looked into my best friend's eyes and felt, crushed and elated, brotherly appreciation and love?
No, I suppose not. I might be close, in some ways, but not me in meaning. I have not been born before, will not be born again. Memoria. Though it is fun to imagine that someone has been born or will be born who understands this ranting, who understands why I must do it, abnormally unashamed and at the mercy of impulsion, why I must spit guts without worry of presentation, why I try, again and again, to fail. It's fun to imagine that someone understands that these attempts at failure are the product of my misshapen idea of success. Where do I find success? In finding home, I guess, and *this*, this most inappropriate and uncivilized collection of words, is the only way I know to search for it. What is home? Home is that place, if ever it exists, where you, in sanity and madness, are never crazy.
posted by Philip at 1:53 AM
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