Fall Threat, Wade Deep

September 1, 2009

I think I’ve seen too much. It’s true, like the pulpy horror fixations of our semi-literary adolescence told us, once you push that edge, man… once you go over…

Nothing is different. In fact, everything is more the same than it ever was, with the exception of memory. Hindsight: goggles of influence.

Memory is sacred to me now. It is a textured vision, sometimes distorted, filtered, enhanced or dulled. Memories are sonoluminescence; little bursts in fluid, stars of the mind. Today was the first day it felt like fall. I was kissed by an ambient coolness while riding my bicycle this morning. Never coy, the soft-speaking maid of sneak-attacks only exists to make me a fool, loaded eternally with her arsenal of holy visions and carnivorous humor. And thank god she does. She was offensive, pointing fingers and mocking my tranquility, and glibly spinning signs down the road. She, the prankster of purging pragmatism. This was not our first match-off, but the feeling was foreign, again. I had forgotten its paint peeling poignancy even though it had only been a few weeks since my last upheaval. Forgotten like the language of dead intimacy. The suddenness made the morning dream-like and the rush of uncertainty was enough to ease my aching convictions. I remember this annual bloombirth. Memory served as a thread, joining this season with each of its yearly counterparts, or, my life in Autumns.

I had been trudging through the past week, attempting to re-shape myself to this new/old life. Looking with a linear mindset, doing what I thinks I oughta.

“I was here and here and here, and now I’m here, so that means I’m here,” a reasonable assumption, but reduced to a sticky paste.

Life is cyclic and repetitive, but I ignore that, thankfully. When a situation feels absolutely right or wrong, the outcome will be absolutely unexpected. I only remember this when reminded at the most inappropriate time: when I finally see clearly. If I’m seeing clearly, I’m not looking hard enough. That shit is blinding. Bless you child, you’re an idiot.


I just want to have my head shattered daily, again. I want the hours to become dissociated, breaking the day into a million little eternal fragments. I want to wake up in the Papal gardens and go to sleep in a filthy occupazione across the country, after playing football with some Dutch boys. I want climbing on trains, biking across an island for beetroot, panic, failure, boredom, exhilaration, unexpected pleasure. I want to be blanketed by grainy sand on a secluded beach and wish for more. I want to help a lost traveler find what I have found. I am never on vacation. I want Irini’s cooking. I want dinners on hillsides, beaches, sidewalks and cafes. I want to eat whatever is dished out. I don’t want to speak the language all the time. I want to not take it seriously: “ciaoooo”. I want the solidarity of mutual strangers. I want social pressure to drop, being superceded by necessity. I don’t want to hear your truth, I want to believe that it’s unbelievable.


It is.



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