Where am I? Is that the right question though? In certain eastern thought the goal is to get rid of the I even though you are not supposed to have goals in that same eastern thought so I’m confused. And I suppose if I did get rid of the I the where would not matter because it is relative to the I that is you can’t have one without the other you see if there is no I there is no where. I asked myself this question on acid thirty-five years ago and suddenly I was floating away in the air waving and saying goodbye to me and then blackness for I don’t know probably not long. There was neither an I nor a where at that moment but there has to be a better way. Something needs to happen soon but not a thing actually. Words are useless. Except for free hugs. That I can understand. And a few others.
With friction roughness can eventually be rubbed away and also people. Things that make other things go away are water and wind and wasting and people. There is such a thing as a wasting disease and then there is the wasting unease which disappears you even faster, the knowing you are being wasted in a life with no love, on someone with no love for you or at least not enough to protect you from the friction. Water under the bridge is supposed to be a good thing but too much water and it never makes it under the bridge it sweeps the bridge right away with it. And wind wind wind blowing from your mouth as you pick and peck and dig this kind of wind can tear down mountains. And so I am rubbed not in the right way and torn down and wasting and wasted. Away.
How did I get from wildest dreams to none I wonder and then I console myself and say I’ve had the wildest of wild dreams and some have even come true so just deal with it it’s over. For everything turn turn turn turn turn that’s it for wild so much for wild you’re only allowed so much wild in one life. But then fuck that. So I hit the sauce and buzz me up some wild, wilder, wildest dreams depending on how much I drink like the one where I… Maybe the dreams can go on but it’s just the coming true that ends. That blows but whatever the coming true isn’t really that much better than the dreams anyway because the coming true only lasts so long.
I wanted the pain and I got what I came for a black pain that shoots all through and up your thighs between your legs and over your nipples. The top of the foot is a bad one I knew so I told him I had a high pain threshold and he said women can handle it better than men anyway. I wanted a bigger pain than the pains I live with every day now you know like when you stub your toe and you dig your nail into a different spot close by so the toe hurts less. So for a good long while there was only this pain and nothing else and you reach out to it. And a sweet gentle man to wrap his arm around my calf and rest his shoulder and his head on me and give me pain and something to show for it for a change. You should have something in return for all your pain shouldn’t you besides a scar?
Shade is the word of the day, the ghosts all my shades caressing and elbowing and suffocating me you let them in and I can’t breathe, and slithering slippery shades of meaning I can’t grasp you are so slippery and to think I let you slip inside me, to think I have shades I wore every day shades that gather dust in this gray gray place of gray gray people. Sometimes shade means shelter but sometimes it means obscurity and you have become obscure, obscured yourself from me and sucked out the light, sucked away my light, to think I let any shady character steal my light away. Never again.
You will all have heard my stories, you will all have drawn my breasts my nose and your conclusions. You will have me figured, flat and static as the lines you drew. But you never heard all my stories only thought you did, never made all the stories you could have made with me or even tried, never saw my finest lines. The lines you drew were in your sand but my sand is quick. You are all alike. There are always more stories and more artists. I feel like dancing.
I always look at old ladies now and take pictures of them and put them on the Internet because I’m getting there. People politely Like the pictures because it would be rude not to Like an old lady picture. I like the ones in red shoes because red shoes say something they say I am here like the Who in the dust speck and if not nobody sees them except the ladies who are almost old like me. They don’t move too fast so shutter speed doesn’t matter.