Your Forgetting Place

I want to go do something else. To build things. To make crazy wayward things in my tinker room. Perhaps buy clockworks and rearrange the faces, make them do strange, errant things in perfect ordered time. I want to bring Illusion back into the weekday. I want the stories to never end. Let each be our sequel to the previous, and not merely repeat. I want to make stuff. I want to be a paid artist. A mad scientist with machines that go nowhere and do nothing but strike the eye and the apprehension. I want to let my hands run wild. I want to waste afternoons and forget the important things until after night fall. I want burn the midnight oil and wake up drunk on the fermentation of new ideas and possibilities uncounted. I want to leave my eyes behind. I want to make kids’ toys for grownups. I want to teach things I barely know to the unaware. I love her. I want to buy dozens of kites, fly them up each in turn, and tie them off to poles, trees, stray dogs. I want to be prosecuted by the State for excessive kite flying. I want them to chase me. I want to be protested and supported, and then see those sign carrying passionate fools suddenly switch sides like Orwellian drones with two feet down the memory hole. I want to play with robotics. I want to burn board games like witches at the stakes, and then write long apologetic histories to document the atrocity. I want to be a known unknown. I want to wear a black swan on the back of my black motorcycle jacket. I want fear and loathing. I want to party with Hunter S. I want to not feel wasted as I waste me. I want to know the secrets of women and the dreams of children. I want to leave the bullshit behind. I want to pay off the house and then walk away. I want to writhe and speak in tongues, to convince the leaders to abdicate, to free the power deserted masses, to hold mass without churches, without prophets, without lavender. I want the storms to be rolled back into the nothing balls of butterfly wing disturbance from whence they came. I want to see a live mastodon. I want Russia to accomplish this and then invade Nome on a big, hairy, trunked cavalry. I want the bees to be ok. I want us to think for once, and then maybe for again. I want to pair pears with pearls. I want salmon butterscotch. I want rainbows at night. I want lives immortal but brief. I want the demons to give it a rest. There is no sanction, no sanctity, no super sucker black hole in my heart. I want you to remember this place. I want you to realize there is no past nor future but this shared space of transfiguring meaning and misinterpretation. I want you to find me hear, to here me. I want you to wonder if you’re in hear too, some weird close, some plankton nearby, singing sweet subtle sounds on the Sunday of your forgetting place. Of the Sea, Sun, Soil, And the terrifying trench of Time.

To go do something else. To build things. To make crazy wayward things in my tinker room. Perhaps buy clockworks and rearrange the faces, make them do strange, errant things in perfect ordered time. To bring illusion back into the weekday. The stories to never end. Let each be our sequel to the previous, and not merely repeat. To make stuff. To be a paid artist. A mad scientist with machines that go nowhere and do nothing but strike the eye and the apprehension. To let my hands run wild. To waste afternoons and forget the important things until after night fall. Burn the midnight oil and wake up drunk on the fermentation of new ideas and possibilities uncounted. To leave my eyes behind. To make kids’ toys for grownups. To teach things barely know to the unaware. Love her. To buy dozens of kites, fly them up each in turn, and tie them off to poles, trees, stray dogs. To be prosecuted by the state for excessive kite flying. Them to chase me. To be protested and supported, and then see those sign carrying passionate fools suddenly switch sides like orwellian drones with two feet down the memory hole. To play with robotics. To burn board games like witches at the stakes, and then write long apologetic histories to document the atrocity. To be a known unknown. To wear a black swan on the back of my black motorcycle jacket. Fear and loathing. To party with hunter s. To not feel wasted as waste me. To know the secrets of women and the dreams of children. To leave the bullshit behind. To pay off the house and then walk away. To writhe and speak in tongues, to convince the leaders to abdicate, to free the power deserted masses, to hold mass without churches, without prophets, without lavender. The storms to be rolled back into the nothing balls of butterfly wing disturbance from whence they came. To see a live mastodon. Russia to accomplish this and then invade nome on a big, hairy, trunked cavalry. The bees to be ok. Us to think for once, and then maybe for again. To pair pears with pearls. Salmon butterscotch. Rainbows at night. Lives immortal but brief. The demons to give it a rest. There is no sanction, no sanctity, no super sucker black hole in my heart. You to remember this place. You to realize there is no past nor future but this shared space of transfiguring meaning and misinterpretation. You to find me hear, to here me. You to wonder if you’re in hear too, some weird close, some plankton nearby, singing sweet subtle sounds on the sunday of your forgetting place. Of the sea, sun, soil, and the terrifying trench of time.

Go do something else. Build things. Make crazy wayward things in my tinker room. Perhaps buy clockworks and rearrange the faces, make them do strange, errant things in perfect ordered time. Bring illusion back into the weekday. The stories never end. Let each be our sequel the previous, and not merely repeat. Make stuff. Be a paid artist. A mad scientist with machines that go nowhere and do nothing but strike the eye and the apprehension. Let my hands run wild. Waste afternoons and forget the important things until after night fall. Burn the midnight oil and wake up drunk on the fermentation of new ideas and possibilities uncounted. Leave my eyes behind. Make kids’ toys for grownups. Teach things barely know the unaware. Love her. Buy dozens of kites, fly them up each in turn, and tie them off poles, trees, stray dogs. Be prosecuted by the state for excessive kite flying. Them chase me. Be protested and supported, and then see those sign carrying passionate fools suddenly switch sides like orwellian drones with two feet down the memory hole. Play with robotics. Burn board games like witches at the stakes, and then write long apologetic histories document the atrocity. Be a known unknown. Wear a black swan on the back of my black motorcycle jacket. Fear and loathing. Party with hunter s. Not feel wasted as waste me. Know the secrets of women and the dreams of children. Leave the bullshit behind. Pay off the house and then walk away. Writhe and speak in tongues, convince the leaders abdicate, free the power deserted masses, hold mass without churches, without prophets, without lavender. The storms be rolled back into the nothing balls of butterfly wing disturbance from whence they came. See a live mastodon. Russia accomplish this and then invade nome on a big, hairy, trunked cavalry. The bees be ok. Us think for once, and then maybe for again. Pair pears with pearls. Salmon butterscotch. Rainbows at night. Lives immortal but brief. The demons give it a rest. There is no sanction, no sanctity, no super sucker black hole in my heart. You remember this place. You realize there is no past nor future but this shared space of transfiguring meaning and misinterpretation. You find me hear, here me. You wonder if you’re in hear too, some weird close, some plankton nearby, singing sweet subtle sounds on the sunday of your forgetting place. Of the sea, sun, soil, and the terrifying trench of time.

Godosomethingelse.Buildthings.Makecrazywaywardthingsinmytinkerroom.Perhapsbuyclockworksandrearra
ngethefaces,makethemdostrange,errantthingsinperfectorderedtime.Bringillusionbackintotheweekday.Thestori
esneverend.Leteachbeoursequeltheprevious,andnotmerelyrepeat.Makestuff.Beapaidartist.Amadscientistwith
machinesthatgonowhereanddonothingbutstriketheeyeandtheapprehension.Letmyhandsrunwild.Wasteafternoo
nsandforgettheimportantthingsuntilafternightfall.Burnthemidnightoilandwakeupdrunkonthefermentationofnewid
easandpossibilitiesuncounted.Leavemyeyesbehind.Makekids’toysforgrownups.Teachthingsbarelyknowtheun
aware.Loveher.Buydozensofkites,flythemupeachinturn,andtiethemoffpoles,trees,straydogs.Beprosecutedbyth
estateforexcessivekiteflying.Themchaseme.Beprotestedandsupported,andthenseethosesigncarryingpassionate
foolssuddenlyswitchsideslikeorwelliandroneswithtwofeetdownthememoryhole.Playwithrobotics.Burnboardga
meslikewitchesatthestakes,andthenwritelongapologetichistoriesdocumenttheatrocity.Beaknownunknown.Wea
rablackswanonthebackofmyblackmotorcyclejacket.Fearandloathing.Partywithhunters.Notfeelwastedaswaste
me.Knowthesecretsofwomenandthedreamsofchildren.Leavethebullshitbehind.Payoffthehouseandthenwalkaw
ay.Writheandspeakintongues,convincetheleadersabdicate,freethepowerdesertedmasses,holdmasswithoutchur
ches,withoutprophets,withoutlavender.Thestormsberolledbackintothenothingballsofbutterflywingdisturbancefr
omwhencetheycame.Seealivemastodon.Russiaaccomplishthisandtheninvadenomeonabig,hairy,trunkedcavalry
.Thebeesbeok.Usthinkforonce,andthenmaybeforagain.Pairpearswithpearls.Salmonbutterscotch.Rainbowsatni
ght.Livesimmortalbutbrief.Thedemonsgiveitarest.Thereisnosanction,nosanctity,nosupersuckerblackholeinmyh
eart.Yourememberthisplace.Yourealizethereisnopastnorfuturebutthissharedspaceoftransfiguringmeaningandmi
sinterpretation.Youfindmehear,hereme.Youwonderifyou’reinheartoo,someweirdclose,someplanktonnearby,si
ngingsweetsubtlesoundsonthesundayofyourforgettingplace.Ofthesea,sun,soil,andtheterrifyingtrenchoftime.