the connections between deleuze's ideas of desire and new information about dopamine on the desire for desire are not lost in the heat of these days. it comes in like a slow, hot mess, and we are living incarnations of the same slow, hot mess that gave birth to a hundred civilizations that learned how to adapt to the heat. watching scorpions in the shade, looking for clues about the next great love that would take our minds off ourselves was the beginning of facebook divinations. if god is everywhere and everything, then maybe the mercury messengers do walk thru cyberspace connections, sending the right tarot card at just the right moment, but it's also likely that there as tricky there as anywhere else.
the one thing that these tricksters all have in common is that they seem to like it when we make connections where there are none to be seen, or at least, nothing that's not simply incidental to the moment when everything is already happening anyway. insane people tend to connect the dots faster than most, and are more prone to putting their own pictures in the frame, so it's true on some level, just very unstable. this isn't to say that there are some real spiders crawling thru this hot web of days.
but we're easily mislead (and here, by we i do mean me), because apparently some of us have more dopamine receptors than others, and some of us don't get tired after the great love affair of the evening has played itself out on bodies, and there are always more ways to find time not to rest, not to sleep, and not to fade into ourselves. the same thing that drives the head toward finding an answer to a question is found in the search for another true love, or something like it, and that might just mean that this cinnamon spark is a chemical reaction that we create for ourselves, but it's part of the search that keeps things moving.
i never know if i'm narcissus or echo, but when i find myself waiting for her to pull away from her own image, and counting the days, i find myself repeating myself over and over, until there is nothing left to repeat but my own last words, which may have been her words, but by now have been sampled too many times to be anything recognizable. and i'm guilty of staring too long in the mirror myself, and like to see my image reflected in new scenes whenever i get somewhere new. which is where this is. and i'm waking up to see that i'm guilty of so many things, and things i don't wish to keep repeating.
i do wish i could be content to leave it all back there, to let the moment close on that particular moment, and not find the closure in one of the hundred subsequent moments that could also serve as a placekeeper. they define things, however, those placekeepers, and none of them are sufficient for me to call them a nice poetic ending to a poetic time. either it ends or it doesn't, or it remains somewhere in the closet of unfinished skeletons or it doesn't, but i wish i could find a more poetic ending than the one where it's selves looking at themselves in the mirror and waiting for the next right thing to reveal itself. that next right thing never came.
in the meantime, however, there are many more howevers, and the days went on into this heat, with patterns that tell me that i didn't spend my time waiting for something that couldn't find the way to the surface, because so many other things started to show signs of possibly maybes, and at least two of these are worth following. so i look for signs in the dirt about whether or not this is the right thing or the second best thing, not even aware that i'm starting to follow my heart, and wonder over the next right thing for right now. it's just enough to keep me singing through the blow dryer streets, wind at my back, wind at my face, and wind entering into all the parts that want to want, and this is a body in time, this is something that was healed in time.
but every canal i pass, i see oshun there, doing rites by the water, making hair grow longer, making eyes sparkle with new charm, and making the smell of oranges enchant the mouth of something beautiful. and i sometimes see oshun smiling at me, saying "this is where i closed this for you, because you wouldn't close it all the way, let me take care of this." if i could look into her eyes, the eyes of that goddess, i would see as many tears as sparks of glitter, because she's tired of me doing these things over and over again. but she also won't let me close it any further, because for some reason, she loves her just as much as i do, but being who she is, she's also becoming a little bit enchanted with new smells of the season, because she has so many children that she loves, and she's not tired of me when i'm looking for another answer, because this is when i start to make things with my hands, and the world is green again.
every altar by the canal is a shrine to something that once was, and every altar is a shrine to something that will not die, and every altar is a map to another universe, and the only thing they have in common are my footsteps, and the places where waters of longing were flowing, and water still flows in the desert, in a place that's much more mysterious than we ever thought, even on our best days, and even on our best days that haven't happened yet.
the one thing that these tricksters all have in common is that they seem to like it when we make connections where there are none to be seen, or at least, nothing that's not simply incidental to the moment when everything is already happening anyway. insane people tend to connect the dots faster than most, and are more prone to putting their own pictures in the frame, so it's true on some level, just very unstable. this isn't to say that there are some real spiders crawling thru this hot web of days.
but we're easily mislead (and here, by we i do mean me), because apparently some of us have more dopamine receptors than others, and some of us don't get tired after the great love affair of the evening has played itself out on bodies, and there are always more ways to find time not to rest, not to sleep, and not to fade into ourselves. the same thing that drives the head toward finding an answer to a question is found in the search for another true love, or something like it, and that might just mean that this cinnamon spark is a chemical reaction that we create for ourselves, but it's part of the search that keeps things moving.
i never know if i'm narcissus or echo, but when i find myself waiting for her to pull away from her own image, and counting the days, i find myself repeating myself over and over, until there is nothing left to repeat but my own last words, which may have been her words, but by now have been sampled too many times to be anything recognizable. and i'm guilty of staring too long in the mirror myself, and like to see my image reflected in new scenes whenever i get somewhere new. which is where this is. and i'm waking up to see that i'm guilty of so many things, and things i don't wish to keep repeating.
i do wish i could be content to leave it all back there, to let the moment close on that particular moment, and not find the closure in one of the hundred subsequent moments that could also serve as a placekeeper. they define things, however, those placekeepers, and none of them are sufficient for me to call them a nice poetic ending to a poetic time. either it ends or it doesn't, or it remains somewhere in the closet of unfinished skeletons or it doesn't, but i wish i could find a more poetic ending than the one where it's selves looking at themselves in the mirror and waiting for the next right thing to reveal itself. that next right thing never came.
in the meantime, however, there are many more howevers, and the days went on into this heat, with patterns that tell me that i didn't spend my time waiting for something that couldn't find the way to the surface, because so many other things started to show signs of possibly maybes, and at least two of these are worth following. so i look for signs in the dirt about whether or not this is the right thing or the second best thing, not even aware that i'm starting to follow my heart, and wonder over the next right thing for right now. it's just enough to keep me singing through the blow dryer streets, wind at my back, wind at my face, and wind entering into all the parts that want to want, and this is a body in time, this is something that was healed in time.
but every canal i pass, i see oshun there, doing rites by the water, making hair grow longer, making eyes sparkle with new charm, and making the smell of oranges enchant the mouth of something beautiful. and i sometimes see oshun smiling at me, saying "this is where i closed this for you, because you wouldn't close it all the way, let me take care of this." if i could look into her eyes, the eyes of that goddess, i would see as many tears as sparks of glitter, because she's tired of me doing these things over and over again. but she also won't let me close it any further, because for some reason, she loves her just as much as i do, but being who she is, she's also becoming a little bit enchanted with new smells of the season, because she has so many children that she loves, and she's not tired of me when i'm looking for another answer, because this is when i start to make things with my hands, and the world is green again.
every altar by the canal is a shrine to something that once was, and every altar is a shrine to something that will not die, and every altar is a map to another universe, and the only thing they have in common are my footsteps, and the places where waters of longing were flowing, and water still flows in the desert, in a place that's much more mysterious than we ever thought, even on our best days, and even on our best days that haven't happened yet.
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