Luna Marie
Um. In bulleted form for your bliss, lady, your bliss. I'm always aiming for your bliss.
Things going on -
Wild dreams about horses, troops of horses, and living back on the mountain and a bastard who's angry about the fact that some restaurants don't change their menus nightly and looks back like a big, smarmy bastard at you like you'd fuck him after that and then there's your grandparents and dead birds being nailed to the exterior of the house and circling the house and making some guy lay in a bed with them to protect them from the bastard and it working like a crack shot genius thought it up. And the river running and the cavalry of light...what a dream, the color, the white light, the power, the christmas of it, the triumph of it, I slept till 11 trying to make it stay alive.
I woke preferring dreamlife to waking.
That's how I feel: Lavender Diamond's You Broke My Heart, that throbbing battle cry. It's all in that song, a big glossy canvas, all true.
I hope I can touch that psychic space again soon. I'm hungry for its goodness, the way I can be expanded and strengthened.
So, more bullets.
I don't know about moving home. I mean, I'm going to, that's not a question, but...oh, I feel like there's a swamp, a muck that awaits me there. I don't know. You have to honor people who live for family and the diurnal survival of the personal status quo. I mean, that's what I've done, that's what my family's done, that's what has been done to get us where we are. It all comes down to people in fields, people in front of computers, people unsure but doing. And yeah, you can't help but do...but I want more. I've always wanted more, but I've had a limited willingness and capability to affect. I've been Aquarian-Libran, wanting and failing for a greater connectedness.
Up north we love for blood, bleed for love, store it in the 23rd pantry, sell it on the street, our eyes tell us that we've not forgotten anything. There's that chill that forces us to grunt and leap, fail in the dim light, succeed in the mending hours. I've not been wanting for anything because my shape is empty, I've forged a life of want. Want is my mettle and I cannot ask for more. Filled or empty, there must be satisfaction in that.
It's the leaves falling. Have you noticed them? The golden hands stroking the air, collecting in the gutters, crackling not like bones or a witch's voice running along the road, but the noise of a beautiful thing, amber, garnet, so fragile. Change. I'm comforted that as the trees shake off their gowns, their gaudy dress, they don't ask for more. Satisfaction in their want. This is why Camus says the world is meaningless, the world is satisfied by absence, by order, by misdirection, by the absurd. We struggle because we have expectations, fears, we see holes where there are none, excess and hunger, blood where there is love.
I'm not sure, maybe he'll have an answer by the time we finish the book. How to be good in the face of beauty that we are not a part of, how to answer wants with dry leaves, bilgewater, dry heat, words.
I go back to the dream. It's a production of a fevered brain, but it feels good. I can fake it to make it.
I want to steal your heart, make you understand that it's bigger than us but together we needn't be frightened. We're smart enough and while I'm north, you're south, we're the same country, the same waves crashing. There's a place, you know, where we have to meet.
