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The Truth is not written. The truth is never glamorous. Mash up all paper. Let the laptops sink.

Updated: Oct 26, 2021

I want to transcribe a part of my journal into a blog post because I am feeling sore and soft today, sore and soft as an old worm living in an old apple. I promise you this:

Mother Earth is still alive and we can be here for her. I’ve been working towards this simple understanding. Nibbling away at my aging apple. But, you know, this apple is TEMPERATURA CORPORAL NORMAL

This apple is not the world, it is the part of the world in which I've been… the skin is xawy, which is how I just misspelled “waxy,” and bright green to contrast the partially exposed mush of the insides in which I dwell. Not to mention the stickers. Two, exactly the same, each with a barcode and logo. I don't know if the barcodes are identical, since it bores me sick to look at them. My body’s membranes are diminished, transparent and permeable. I like to imagine they will not continue to weaken, that this is how I will stay. And I can almost tolerate that. I count, calculate, mentally sectioning sections off and on with incisive gestures because I am afraid of the information which I spend my time obsessively administering. My only precision is intuitive; I do not fool myself when it comes to the realm of my interpretive gifts. I live in the apple still, but I hope to live in… another, different apple. A fresher one. One that looks less like me.

Giacommeti, '67

That was a short time ago. Now, I am sore and soft. Now I rest my cheek on the inside of my apple, weeping, soaking in my own tears, which are warm and amniotic. Wave after wave of magnificently brutal emotion stretched and woven into the fabric of a new life. I don’t know what happens next. Things can become psychedelic quite quickly. Particles of truth of love, the one, the all, the me, the you, the green, the bruise, stretched into waves like worms of many names, criss crossed into fleshy illustrations of collapsing and expanding spaces, illuminating ever-deceptive gesticulations of time… but I’ve “seen” enough times. I am okay with missing out on the fantastical mirage that currently threatens to manifest.

I want to know where and how the land and I mutually need each other to do what must be done. I do not claim to have it all dandily practiced. Fuck I’m tired today. I’d have another cappuccino if it wouldn’t jolt me into exhausted convulsions of energy.

Parts of my journal:

I’m a short way up the mountain and I stopped to say, amid ploppety raindrops that I pray will avoid this page, unlike the two big ones, now three, which soak in, softening the paper… I stopped by a big tree where many have stopped before, as evidenced by the evenly spread, disgustingly colorful sheets of mangled foil over the rocky slope, more offensive to the eye, but far less dangerous to the foot than the remnants of inebriation: shards of bottles and rusted bits of aluminum cans, so green and brown as to resemble fresh torn leaves or crispy rotten ones, respectively. I suppose that is what I stopped to say. And yes my feet are bare and I must go on, as the tree can only offer so much protection against the rain. Which I welcome everywhere but on this journal. Not that it shares my preference, this paper pulp of trees that once, in their leafiness, had the ability to offer limited protection to the flattened, bleached remains of their brethren.

I realize as I climb a bit further up that no droplets of sky water resemble the bigness and potential for penetrative depth of those beneath the tree. The ones coming from the clouds are more ubiquitous, unconcerned with being absorbed. Like fairy spittle rather than the tears of giants.

The moment my tears start streaming into my raincoat I take it off. I need no protection from the Mother’s waters of which I am. As I stop to write I hear a jet plane, but see it not through the mist. Ink runs down a sopping page.

I wrote more. I wrote about crowning mountains with the crown of my head. Como, en camino a la cima, todo el bosque era un charco suave y mis pies se hundían en su lodo escurridizo lleno de insectos y de vegetación que, con los sutiles aromas dulces de su transición a tierra, me despertaba recuerdos que aún, al escribir esto, reverberan hacia mayores profundidades. Quiero explicar quién me ha estado guiando y enseñando. A sanar, a ser. Pero no puedo especificar que es la tierra, el agua, el aire, el fuego. Ni la luz ni la oscuridad. La lluvia viajando aguachinche sobre los hombros invisibles del viento, empapándome el pecho, mezclándose con mis lágrimas, suavizándome hacia la solidez del cerro que me sostiene, derritiendo el barro de entre mis uñas, infinitas gotas, cada una reflejándome al sol cuando no tengo los ojos cerrados en un acto de plena presencia, devoción. Es este cuerpo que es nuestro cuerpo, esta conciencia que es la nuestra. La vida. Life. Words. As I use them they tumble downhill like fluffy seeds into the dark air. Swish.

Edge Dancer by Michael Whelan.


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