A raw egg in its shell, that is my head. Spinning. Sluggishly. Elliptically. The center holds, but it careens.
I cannot walk straight. Nor see so. Every single thing is foreign and new, even the keyboard, even the floor.
There is a knot on my forearm. It is gentle rose-mauve fading to green and soft yellow. A bruise? The manifestation of a sunset I loved? The body holds memories, why not display them?
There is a long, fine scratch down my back, as if a scalpel drew its line lightly.
When I rub my wrist it hurts deep inside. Not like a muscle or tendon. Tender, like sunburn.
The veins on the back of my hand trace a rune! How have I missed that all my life? What does it say? (What does yours?)
I have no memory of bruising or cutting, nor inside-out sunburn. No memory of runic existence.
I can't deny the physical evidence but can't name its source, either. Bruise and scratch and burn, these signs have no history, no context. They are mute.
And what about the rune?
I have vague memories. Impressions. Colors and lights. Bodies. Scents Drums. A belly dancer named Good. A wooden floor, the boards worn smooth and heaved. A metal grate in the floor. Silver tinsel. Night sky. Stars. Bad poets shouting.
This is Leaping Man.
Trust nothing. The earth opens and swallows. Nothing is solid, everything is real.
In consciousness matter coheres. Be vigilant. When your mind wanders, everything does.
This is not my brain on drugs. Or drinks. This is my brain on me. I blow my own mind.
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3 comments:
Normalcy has never been one of my aspirations...
I like unique... distinctive...
Moderation is for monks...
Leaping Man... hmmmm... definitely NOT normal...
but... this event... was not done well...
it didn't come close to living up to the expectations of a Burning Man inspired event...
i came close to being underwhelmed...
but... all in all... it was a good night... i had a very nice tanda...
and any day that includes a nice tanda... by definition... is a good day...
~when tango becomes our link to sanity and normal... should we be seeking professional assistance???
Yes!
I seek professional assistance Sundays at Patricia's and at the Avalon. Tuesdays at the Turn. Wednesdays at Little Europe. Thursdays at David Hodgson's class, wherever it appears. Fridays at the Merc.
I am with you on the Leaping Man thing.
Only one thing met my expectations: the Bad Poets.
I expect bad poetry at these events and would be disappointed if I didn't get to hear some.
I am amused by and feel a great deal of affection for bad poets. They are so cocky and intense.
I especially those who adopt the delivery style of Fox News commentators--shout with conviction!
They shout their stuff to the world, and it's awful and they're convinced that it's not because it's coming straight from their hearts.
That said, there was one good poem naming the bodily parts and functions that angels lack, alluding to the horrors and joys of life they lack, all of it adding up to the hell and heaven that we miserable mortals are privileged above the angels to experience here on earth.
The poet dismissed it as one of his older poems, a toss-off he included because he happened to have it memorized. He had no idea it was the best of his lot.
That's a Bad Poet for you.
I love you, Bad Poet! Shouting straight from the heart. The world needs more Quixotes like you.
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