It has been a year of new things, rebirths, climbing out of the deep snows of the past five years and trying to warm up and look around and be happy enough with the foundation I still have to patch up the mess of clutter and chaos that can build up when your view is obstructed by crooked eyelids. I have a lot of animosity towards the exterior humans of all walks and varieties right now, probably part of sorting out myself and lashing out from feeling stifled for so long, feeling judged by the open-minded, feeling confined by the freedom-loving, feeling fucked by those who claim to be so pure of goddamned spirit.
When you make the big changes in life, you think you've hit a fork and you make a left or right choice and leave behind the path you came along, but it's not like that. So I'm struggling to take this new course but keep hold of what's important. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish what is important and what is waste when you're a wooden ruler's width away from burning it all down, taking a Greyhound as far west as you can afford to, and seeing where that ends up.
There is a battle for my soul right now, the forces of my pasts and the forces of my futures, a chessboard's worth of holographic universe of possibilities coming together with worrisome swords, fighting it out, march madness style. And just like paying $8 to sit there in a gym and watch two teams full of dudes in matching outfits play a game at each other in front of you and a bunch of other people's eyeballs, I can feel the momentum. I can feel what forces are winning and what are losing. Some seem like upsets to me, and some make perfect sense, and all of it is happening, internal struggles that you don't even notice. Yeah, this shit happens to all of us, but we confuse and delude ourselves to not pay attention to the cellular disturbances that put extra twists in our intestines and a millisecond skip to our heartbeat like that Chilean earthquake shifting Earth time ever so infinitely not there.
So this 7-list is straight up metaphysical color commentary. I've sat in a tipi in my back yard by the pig pen where I can lift weights naked until I'm as sweaty as the beer I leave sitting on the shell of an old wood stove I use as a table back there, and go inside the tipi, wearing a pair of headphones plugged into nothing, to stifle the bzzzzzzzzzzzz that is everywhere from the multitudes of cell phone towers of Babel, and to hear the different drums inside that ideally I should be marching to. Empty five-gallon water jugs flipped over inside of milk crates for a bass, and old three-gallon drywall buckets for a snare, with a gallon wine bottle cowbell and two 1/2 inch dowel scraps for drum sticks. Short pieces of salvaged rebar make a bigger sound but break the wine bottle, and wine bottles are only meant to be broken when two-thirds full of loose change. That's the way it is.
This 7-list is a tournamental battle for my soul, as it stands (or looks like it stands from where I sit) in the just about springtime of 2010.
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