2005-09-23
Nothin' But Blue Skies
This isn't really a place anymore--it doesn't feel as important. Writing no longer feels as important.
As I told my therapist, I'll always hope to be the child in class who possesses the rare insight.
He inquired about a thing called compassion, and whether there was any chance of my developing it. Fuck no.
My walks are simply walks, in which the critical voice inside of my head begins to gain a mass all its own and compassion no longer has a space...except when...well, you know.
My life is music and writing--at the core, of course. I'm trapped in that place of love, where "there's spring in the air [and] they're sweeping the streets [and] wind is a breeze...nothin' but blue skies."
But I couldn't tell you. She asks where I live and where I'm from and I point my finger toward a blurry past. A golden, blurry past which I can't escape and no therapist can actually lead the way out.
I wanted to find out...something--anything. There were pale pink orchids when I joined you.
And once again, she asks, "Where do you live?"
A film of daze covers my face, and I ask, "Did that really happen?" Yeah. There's a soft breeze now. I'm from here and from everywhere else--every other place I've ever dreamed of, including the cold side of the moon.
I'm from that place where the ebbs in the foamed ocean rise in poetic grace. Where trees have memories and can speak. Where melty winter mid-days lead the way to discovery.
And not many have been there, and neither will they bother to go.