2023-06-01 Journal Entry

🍃 Season: 🌷 Spring 🔆 Weekday: Thursday 🗓 Date: June 1, 2023 📅 Week: May 29 – Jun 4, 2023

Is it time to bring back the early mornings? I wish I was starting my day with the most important things instead of getting distracted. Protocol comes first, that’s the end of it.

I’m going to use this journal as part of an exercise. This will be an exercise in word association. Association, in this case, will be whatever I want it to mean. Association, like an association of plumbers, keeping the rats of New York City out of the pipes. The rat czar in charge of it all, a dictatorial rat czar, rat Lenin or rat Mao. Rat cultural revolution, the rat’s rising up to overthrow their bourgeoisie oppressors. Oppressors, pressing down, those people killed by the mongolians who put a platter on them and then had a party on it until the people were crushed to death. The saint who was crushed to death. I bet that saint had a crush, a little romantic desire, that they never told anyone, least of all the rest of the church. That crush may have been another saint. Imagine two saints, crushed together as crime for the same punishment, their hands intertwined. Twine, the hands literally tied together, a cat’s cradle under the cold stone. Cat’s cradle, goodnight moon, childhood stories. Childhood, neighborhood, servanthood, hood, good, wood, a man with wooden skin. Pinocchio, perhaps. Mayhaps, the month of may, the spring festivals filled with sacrifices and rose petals, Heliogabalus crushing his banqueteers with rose petals, his eyes glowing with intrigue at their writhing limbs. Writhing in ecstasy or pain, or both, what’s the difference, all vibrations after all, all citations after all, distillations, permeations, creations, inebriations, mistaken, misplaced. A misplaced heart, a gamble that doesn’t pay out. What does it mean to find “the one” or rather to make the one, to craft it out of blood and stone. Not to craft the person, no, but to craft the relationship, the quiet air between two people. It’s that space between the how-are-yous and the lunches shared, between the quiet whispers and wayward glances on a crowded subway, at watching a horrible, bright spectacle before you and saying not a word because you don’t need to. It’s the unspoken knowing of a person, of a heart unguarded, unsharpened, not dull but never-hardened.

I’d shower you in rose petals and mystery and the all-encompassing silence of one with whom we crafted many secrets. Let us cut away a silence for ourselves, one strong enough to hold us til we croak, strong oak, a brave home in which to raise ourselves again. You and me, warriors of this space, decorating our time with one another. Let us make this place beautiful, all places beautiful, together. You could make this place beautiful, make it bountiful, make it hum and spring and hold everything closely. Make it clean and well-lived and marvelous, make it belong to all who can see, make it ring like mountains do, make it soft like rain and kind words, make it a movie screen, make it where you can be seen, make it where you can be what you said you’d be.