betwixt

enough time goes by, and i don’t even feel mad anymore. i mean…there are occasional flare-ups. international or historical injustice is revealed; the more details, the larger the context of the story, the greater the tragedy. and the more i hear such stories, the more i know, i ain’t seen nothing yet. and then, of course, there’s injustice on the national and local levels…no collar crime, robbery, shooting, killing, kidnapping, vehicular homicide, brain insults…a cheating wife, a jealous husband, a card game gone wrong, an old debt unsettled, a broken cigarette, a high school student scorned, a gang member disrespected, an innocent victim made… these things happen. sometimes the incidents swarm rapidly around me, fanned flames fluttering far too close for comfort, and, you know…the accompanying flare-up of emotion. a wrenching. a dull pain. the angst. anxiety, doom, dread, recognition...

my father is 70 now, hanging by a thread it seems. and yet, he could be one of them who kept on keeping on, not really doing much with his days… remembering some, forgetting most, letting my mother be bygone… and she, 10 years younger, 20 worlds away, in an apartment. uselessly, i still think it would have made more sense for them to tough it out. companionship is not for everyone, but old age is a mutha alone… i understand better now why poor people and all people have kids, even when the whole world is bleak and dismal and (perpetually) on the verge of another catastrophe… i take that back. i’m mixing up my discoveries. i’ve been asking so many people for so long how and why people (young, ill-equipped people, in particular) continue having babies when they can’t take care of the ones who are already here. i’m told a variety of things happen that support procreating (namely lust), but that’s not really my interest at the moment. i’m on the usual writing around things kind of thing, but also thinking about mortality and complacency. about what happens in between the aforementioned flare-ups.

there’s complacency, yes, some consumption, occasional consummation, frequent communication, varying degrees of relaxation, and also the forging of new and improved and flawed and not meant to last relationships. let’s face it: not all of them were meant to last. my friends call me crazy, suggest i’m sharp-tongued, etc., and perhaps, the way i see myself is completely different from how others see me. but i’m sure it’s not just me. we all think of ourselves one way, never fully seeing what is exuded externally through our auras and scents and conversations. who do i put at ease, who do i make uncomfortable? who trusts me? who never would? who is judged upon inspection, who makes it through the gates? what secrets do we keep, and what is written on our faces? who can be easily understood, who can never? who nurses wounds by dark, yet steals and cheats by light? who cares for the careless and who lives for the dead? who fights for a chance, who bends over, who cares? who stares into the eyes of strangers? who preys upon the innocent, flaunts riches in front of the po house? who calls her mother every sunday and believes god will send her the right man? who has given up on prayer, and who could never imagine such? who likes the wrong kind of porn, who tells the wrong kinds of lies? who looked too long and walked away too quickly? who lives with regrets, who walks while dead? what do we do in between the flare-ups?

making art used to be rewarding. and then, there was the internet, a long-term relationship. there was blogging and surfing and bossip and myface. there was g-chat and huffpo, and funny, soul still looks back in wonder, asking, wtf?

soul needs to face front, and keep it moving. maybe i should shelf the net on the weekends, and answer some of the questions above. or at least, write a few dozen more…