Somewhere tucked in a few pasts I promised myself I’d keep the flow between inner life and outer life on even exchange; no embargos, no insider trading, just express and express; sometimes outer life feels like it’s nonsense and sometimes, given the fact that I am a walking hydroelectric plant, the inner life spews out raging dialogue about people I’ve never met and I get full of turn of the century bitters and coals and unusable ores that pile up in the belly of the soul and sometimes the blabbering steam that rises reflects the pile it comes from and sometimes it’s just energy that needs to find a boxing bag before it leaks into more vital parts of the brain, the ones that control the mouth and other basic motor functions. And sometimes the Inner/Secret Sanctum Life and the OUter Life behave differently and both are real and you have to balance your heart leaking fluid in one hand and the great fortune of connection with ex-strangers in the other; today falls into that latter category. I had a good long conversation with an astrologer at Cocoa Bar and the baristas and I needed it because the core of this earth is filled with dirt that hurt; I also did what a good capitalist boy does when hitting the blue slicks, BUY! I got an external monitor for my camera so when Frenemies trailer films, we can tell it’s in focus.
I deactivated my Twitter account; it depressed the hell out of me as I had no followers and yet was tweeting to no one sans one person who knows how to reach me anyway; I might as well had been dressed in my teenage corduroys talking to a banana peel in Prospect Park; it’s love hate with social media; when life has been a little lonesome it amplifies it so Connecticut says Nay!
Inner life report: feel a little busted like an edited character out of a Tom Waits album; I need to re-build a social life; How the hell I ended up playing gin rummy with my vacuum cleaner on a Saturday night is beyond me; I’m easy to slide towards solitude; I look around and sometimes I can hear voices in iother people’s heads and they sound like jukeboxes from a lonesome bar right off the Texas border; the tunes are ones that remind you that you can dance so you can realize there’s no one around; or the one fellow may notice you but you left your lipstick in the car under an old box of Chinese food and getting it would have been worth it twenty minutes ago. One of those deals.
Silence is a pause sometimes between us and sometimes it feels like a that golden cord has been tied in knots and I do not recognize the hands; are they newly or do they belong to someone else? I don’t know what truth is and I don’t care; it’s mulch for the moment;