approaching something else

This is what it is.  Strange summer nights where I am in other people's houses, wearing overalls and green hipster glasses on the front porch and thinking about smoking cigars while smoking cigars and writing it all down and resting for awhile.  Not that there was any big turn in things, not on the surface, like anything that grows in the desert, everything that happens for real happens under the ground, because the ground is too hard, and on the surface we just make selves up, so we can be them, but it's hard to be anything because there's so much resistance, so most of us end up deciding on the easiest thing, and we go with that for now.

I like the music that we're making, and I like how it doesn't have to be about anything except for this moment right here, and I like how we move together, and the moving is about moving in the time that's happening right here, and the only thing that has to fall into place is this.  And I like how it did shift with something on the surface, and that something had to do with dance, and I like how I know people who know how to move with fire in their bones, and how we can talk about the fire, and how that fire is easy to talk about because I have that, too, but it comes out differently.  And I like how sometimes music is better than words, because words can't contain this thing, this hard knot, the words can't place it anywhere that's right, and the words just come out wrong, and I end up saying something that I didn't expect, and I suspect that it might not be true, only pretty.  Except, here lately the words come out hard, and the hard words sound pretty, and that's not really right.  And I suspect that the words that can come close are soft and beautiful, but they don't fall anywhere, because there are no echos that I can hear any more. 

Like that.  I'm not so sure about that.  I'm not sure that's true.  Like there may be echos and like maybe I can hear, but I am pretending not to, because they are pretty but knotted.  I would like to be impressed by pretty words, but sounds will also do, and moving the body in time and space will also do for now. 

So I'm trying to feed my head with things that are working, things that are open, things that are not caught in knots.  And I'm trying, and failing, to be silent, because these are words that tell things that might be true.  And I might say that I would like to be in love, and maybe I am, but maybe I can't really do anything with it until we all get a little bit older.  And I'm on the verge of getting just a little bit older.

And I'm looking for something to be next, and I would like to think I could do it in overalls, because that would be easy, except I don't like them, really, and I don't think I can do African rituals in overalls unless they are white, and even still, it wouldn't be right because religion is always so coded, and I already have enough trouble performing the right gender through my clothes.

So I take that with me, that self that's part of something larger, and my role is to do some things in the exact correct way, and it's also to create something very new at every moment, like a chameleon.  And I would like to think that there's a theory for this, something French or Eastern European that will liberate me, but the words fall short, and the thinking is too always already inscribed, and it makes me choke, and I can't have things around my neck, not even with safety words (safety word here is mojuba).  But the music of my blood liberates me every time, and the more Polish, the more dark and morose and absurdly tragic, the more I feel the beat in my blood, and that brings me back to things that I don't know how to talk about.  The voices in my head are loud except when there is music, and then they have a place to go, and a way to teach me where and who I'm supposed to be next.  It's a rhythm and a lightning in the blood.  All of this will be resolved in a dance, and it's unlocked in the body first, long before there are words for it, and I forgot, but I just remembered again. 


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