lovely things, things I love

…musing about my muse…


Life is beautiful in that it unfolds in ways you never quite imagine it will. Often there is grief and pain and it seems as if it is all one big shit pile – ein haufenmist (die schönheit!) – when suddenly lovely flowers grow out of it. In fact, that idea alone; that flowers really do grow best, quite often, in shit, is reason to never get too overwhelmed by the immediate circumstance.

There is a strange learning cycle which occurs, I am finding, for artsy-fartsy passionate sensualists such as me. Indeed there is a bible out there for the likes of us; the perfect guide to it all. It is not collected in a bound volume of chapters with names or titles or verses, however. It cannot be purchased or transcribed or even expressed into words, which makes it, truly, the most valuable book never written… It is comprised, in part, of graffiti on bathroom walls, in leaves still colorful as they mash into a soupy brown mass in November rain storms under the wheels of passing traffic and clog gutters, in crazy and beautiful friends who obsess and are passionate about things you don’t quite grasp, in strangers who have repaired their clothing with duct tape, mushrooms that appear overnight in a lawn and in vacated, tiny, fragile, snail shells on morning glory leaves… It is a strange tome which presents itself on the schedule it deems you fit to discover and appreciate. It is a constant cycle with a single theme of eternal beauty in its unyielding rhythm and motion of life, blossom, lull, and then withering death of all form. It is the eternal cycle – a ride on a current that suddenly drops over a sheer cliff into a waterfall, passes through wide bodies and makes you feel as if it has stopped moving all together, only to speed up again through a narrowing passage…

It is the torment of knowing that what is in front of you, that which turns into kaleidoscopic visions of opportunity and hope is completely fleeting, knowing you cannot stop it from withering, blossoming, or changing, becoming what it is meant to be. You hope to capture it anyway, because it is so utterly intoxicating and beautiful. You wish that you could pause it and see it from every angle, smell all of it, taste all of it, touch all of it, and hold onto it until it bores you silly and makes you wish it would change into something else. It always beats you to the finish line, no matter how intense and determined you are to grasp it… Like trying to catch the wind, or remember exactly how you saw something in a cloud – it changes before you’re ready to let go. It is the lover that leaves you bobbing in a wake, forges a new life and moves to a new neighborhood before you’ve even collected your senses enough to realize that they’ve left you…

I have always felt untethered from most of the world. I think I’ve always wished that at some point I might find that very thing – to be tethered, somewhere, to someone else even, to find life simple and clean, knowable, even slightly in my control. Yet when I come close to it, the strings fray into nothing and I always seem to be swept away onto some other breeze like a plastic bag…


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