Friday, July 12

waste basket.

simple version:
i don't care about dinner when i'm not in a good mood,
but i'll cook anyway because i force myself to do 
things i don't want to every single day.
warrior poet version:
sometimes, friends,
you've just got to get into the spirit of the thing.
sort of an aggressive resignation to the reality of events.
how many nights do you not eat dinner because you don't feel like cooking?
i apparently can't hang out with doing less than i usually do-
after just one skipped dinnertime meal, i was back in the kitchen again.
i had all the pans going at once.
because i meet or exceed expectations.
it's a holdover habit from forever feeling flawed and at fault, y'know?
i know you know....
overdoing it is the only way.
i could just defrost some sh!t and keep it simple.
i mean, i would if i was a total A*-hole.
no way.
once i'm committed to a cause,
it has to go to eleven.
that's the inescapable outcome of my invested time and energy.
the object is always MORE.
that said,
the dough was kneaded and rose on up;
the spices were blended together and mixed in with a corn meal breading;
the spinach and the arugala were sauteed;
the onions and basil and tomato were all sliced and spread;
the lettuce rested on the grilled homemade homestyle sexy bread,
and the tofu was dredged and fried and flipped back and forth.
that's about as simple as i'll allow,
regardless of how not feeling it i may be.
rules are rules after all.
check the long-way-to-go-type teleport:
all that effort for a few gigantic sandwiches i folded in half
and force-fed myself to spite my diminished appetite.
that's a thing.
my work is personal, i'm a working person, 
i put in work, i work with purpose.
everything is the same as that sandwich, really.
holy sh!t-tons of effort and intention to create something superlatively beautiful
but equally unnecessary.
there is a way of doing things that gives life to the principles therein.
it applies to all the things at all the times and it defines worthiness
and qualifies as responsible adulthood.
doing what needs to be done, 
above and beyond the bare minimums,
like it or not, 
ready and willing, or not, 
every single time.
we do what we do, or we just aren't any good anymore.
i'm not a flatterer.
no jokes.
i don't see any need to fabricate false feeling for anyone or anything.
my motives are outright and upright at the forefront 
of my embroidered heartstrings.
you know the ones-
the silver threads that sew my beating breaking pulse-pounding heart
onto my sleeve.
uh-huh. my heartstrings. my heart. my sleeve. 
that's what it is, and where i wear it, and how it's held in place.
'most men live lives of quiet desperation
and go to the grave with the song still in them'
thoreau knew it. you know it. we all know it.
there's just no way to put the perfectly pitched and well-honed harmony
of an in-tune and attuned tempo to the tempest of a savage stormswept 
sonnet of want and need and open-armed honesty.
it's impossible to correct cacophony without calamity.
pulling on those dissonant harpists chords around my fist-sized fossil-fueled 
blood furnace would only loosen it's bindings and let it fall.
if this is my song, it is not a good song.
a duet, perhaps, sung alone?
orchestrated with an open mouth and a wide open wound 
in the muscle and meat of an off-timed/ill-timed organ. 
out of tune and out of time, 
but with a whole long life still laying ahead.
that's actually maybe a little tiny bit sad. 
of course, 
i give off-key voice to the desperate and despairing locks and chains 
of this woodsly goodsly world i exist in.
i am a truth teller,
and we live lives of loud, fresh and hard desperation.
hearts, friends.
strings, sleeves, beats, aches, attacks, breaks......
it's all really happening,
and none of it is ever for no reason.
i am grateful for the time i have been given, however.
a better fate than death awaits us anywhere;
never quiet, never soft.....

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