It was over before it began…

Sometime last week…

Twitter: What time is it in Japan @whoisjob? and yes, “skiing waves is the coolest dumbest thing ever.”  Where am I?

In the night, between fresh jersey sheets, red, warm, asleep, awake, filling the time between coughing and blowing my nose I’m searching.  I find it, no, maybe there…hmmmmm…no, Frida?  Frida Kahlo said, “Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings.”  Things that move me are remembered, no, they come alive in the night.  (What was the story about bringing her out of the house in her bed?)  There is so much to remember in the stuff of life, the stuff that shaped us and moved us, the stuff that left us here, now.  It all comes back to me in the night; a day at the Chicago Art Institute, reading Klee Wick, Gertrude Stein and ‘The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas’, Jackson Pollock, Jim Morrison’s ‘Wilderness’ poems, the blue book, the Pescador, finger painting with my son,  the Frida with the black crow…and all the other people who wore khakis…Jack Kerouac,  Picaso, Chet Baker, Hemmingway…

With every cough I am one step closer to breathing…sleep comes as the words fade into the page and the dream of smiles, and crayons, and the striped beanie…the one I wear to keep warm when I wake up in the lost hours…hot, cold…awake, asleep…

Awake.  The muses of dark early mornings, they are awake, and the shadows of pine needles reflect on the glossy wood frame of the ottoman.  All of the lights on the Christmas tree are white and there in the dark forty years of childhood decorations and memories take me back to those days…but the googly-eyed Rudolf Jack made tracing his hands for antlers at kindergarten bring me back , home, somewhere there in the half-light of a new day with the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the fish tank bubbling between the silent escapes, between lines, between pages.  The clocks all stop and I am there, here, in the waking dream, in the land of all that inspires and incites and calls to me from the far shore…jump in with me, breathe and flow, and forget the cold.  The river is so cold but there are lights and voices calling, cheering on the far shore of the forgotten…’Chez, The Motorcycle Diaries’, the lepers on the shore, songs and dances, “plastic fantastic, lobster telephone…” (The Cult), chaos, rock and roll, torn jeans, lost reminders, run…escape…breathe…home. 

There is a fine line…between reality (think about that)…but you never know how thin unless you cross over to the other side, at least once in a while, for a visit.  There is a fine line between late nights and early mornings, between dark and light, between the desert and the flood, between where you were, where you are, who you are, who you will be and who you are meant to become…between awake and asleep.

I close my eyes and the leather arm of the sofa is cool where it touches my eyebrow beneath the warm, red, striped hat.  I forget it all in the moment I close my eyes, in the moment it was created…and an hour has passed unnoticed.

Wenzle Rummle (from the Zephyr Team in Peralta’s epic ‘Dogtown and Z-Boys’) said, “He (Jay Adams) was over it before it even started.”  Watching Jay was art…he was pure spontaneity, imagination, freedom, art…without knowing it…impossible.  That is pure art.  That is life, and I’m not sure which came first.  That is the stuff that brings us back here, you and I, again and again.

(fell fast asleep)


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