[ the moment of surrender of vision over visibility ]
2009-10-19 11:17:46 ET

There have been times in my life where I wanted to reach out of my own skin. Something breaks and tells me there's a freedom outside of this and I want it beyond desire. I want it like an imperative that personified, becomes impossible to diverge from. Like a narrow path with tall thick tree walls set on both sides. A broken K-wall. A dark car crashed into a ditch. An overcast sky.

The times when pattern recognition is a burden and fate is "not without a sense of irony" to a bleeding point. Sometimes both of these shapes happen in exacting moments or spans of time that carry a certain perceived alignment. It's the moments where "alignment" is not precise enough to describe the poetry of the pattern. It's almost holy, sacred.

Like home.

It's like being chased by something that's building a path for you. Imagine the concept of an 'inverted trap'. A syzygy of bread crumbs leading to the monster at the end of the book.

But it turns out the monster is yourself. You yourself tied down the pages. You yourself nailed the barrier. You yourself laid the masonry. You alone designed the pattern. You engineered the connections. You draw the perspective, write the poem and build the model. You, however, still turned every page. You build other people homes because you can't find one of your own.

Because you're always escaping something. Yourself the impossible prison. A bird in a cage with the door wide open. The frame and the masterpiece.

I gladly am falling humbly on my knees at the altar of a dark star. In the same buildings where she started her fascination with repetitive form and where I am finding a nexus inside myself, an aleph of repetitive formz. Humble to what I have done, lost and still seek. My body has become that begging bowl and I have woven my tears into a black bhikkhu robe.

The humility of washing each others feet. Heeling sores and wrapping them in clean cloth.

My heart recedes to an acre, a clearing. Elevated over the harbor. It's beat will float gently on the surface of the Hudson, tethered to a pier by the longest cord, pulling at your stomach. A contour line on a very private topography. That leads to a little light house and never relents.

...and the moon will be damned.

2009-10-19 12:18:01 ET

i've always had a thing for lighthouses

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