Rising

All signs point to moving on, to the getting of going, to the wherefore and how, up to the big house in the bigger sky. Then I see fire and right here feels just about good enough. Except for the discomforts preceded by subtle self deceptions and of course lies. That's all there is to it but that's enough to halt all dreams on stationary road - the kind where one sits idle and not the kind that supplies. Mack told me after the last round of horseshit and fear the next true thing that would keep my bronze lifeboat afloat until the next big change. He said, "Well, one of these two things could happen; It could get worse and then you'll look back on this as really good times or it'll improve and these will look like bad times. In either case we're still breathin'." Good point, I thought, breathing in the bitter cold early afternoon midwinter air. Snow everywhere and deep. Bah, reading back on these posts even a few months I imagine a future diagnosis and some pill that would have taken care of the whole situation had I'd known about it. I got out my Van Gogh action figure, the one my brother bought me after seeing the retrospective at the Met. His head shoots off from a lever in his back and an alternative head with a bandaged ear pops in. What a thing, I sat fiddling with it, sort of half chuckling. Dude put a bullet through his own belly and died. Fuck. Writing this just now I play Bonnie's Beware and sit back sipping a beer in the early hours, watching the cloud cover catch the rising red, purple, pink and yellow sun rays. It's -10 °F, according to the thermometer on the window.

William Nowik performing Crimson Flame (+).