“ if we could not, this afternoon
or some other, be happy, replete,
or harvest at least
some richness out of the native
The terrifying moment of commitment comes your way. You can’t avoid it by the endless litany of meaningless text messages asking what your plans are for the night, the tv is off, the bottle of scotch is empty. You are left as the husk of previous being, and must move forward or forever zigzag away through the boredom and pain. The act of caring for those you’ve hurt means you won’t make the same mistakes again. The cure for what ails you is recognizing you are ill. I’m sick, and now I have to take my medicine or be destined. The only way for free will to rise up again is to not take the same pathways again and again.
I’m committing, full-tilt. I’ve kept my art in a curio cabinet, in a secret compartment of my heart. I’ve protected it from the world, mama-bear fierce, behind the eight-fold fence. My closets are overflowing with universes of my adorations and fears, my bookcase is covered in paint, I sleep with my easel (and I mean that both ways). I will harvest the richness out of the native air and not let the grains grow mold and worms, but throw them out into the world. I am not fearless, I am soaked with sweat.
I shaved my head, I threw out the garbage, I live in the fantastical garden of my daydreams, I’m dancing again now that like a salamander my left arm grew back. I have totems, I see the singular moment, there is no never. Ask me, see if I don’t say yes … yes …yes.