They say there's such a thing as too much of a good thing...didn't believe that until now. Four-circuit speaking, always got that here could be too much dirt, too much water, too much air...but too much fire? nah. Well, color me humbled and corrected. Earthy inertia, emotional seas and the winds of intellect, those are everyday I-see-you's, warring iron hands in velvet gloves, role playing and soul switching; that was known. Too much fire in the interconnects though? Ambushed and unprepared. You spend a whole life stoking the bitchy little thing, born with steel and flint in hand, after-school specials your whole life about the clean burning coal (ha!) you can use, catch a spark, nurse it...then it starts to consume every damn thing around it - always more fuel and more oxygen and more...well, more everything...but it's never enough, never full, never burning with homeostasis for anyone. The more had, the more needed, the cry of the addict from my own damn lips...fuck.
Easier and easier to get the ascetic aesthetic, not for its purity or discipline but for its sanity-building necessity, grokking the folks getting off the wheel (or making every effort, hard going when you're nailed to the fucking frame by design)...at least you get what they want, methods are still mysterious. Eschew the flesh and its demands, burn it down to make it howl and beg and writhe and threaten, till it dies in its wantonness. I really never felt that was a way, more of a murderous rejection of way/weigh/whey...an anarchist cookbook of the spirit, a nihilistic hope fed folk by damaged and deprived haters posing as wise-folk, a fallacy that there is something of the mind (do you Mind?) not wired tight to the ass of us. I've never met a Master of anything, and the people I have encountered that seem otw (warning: professor = aggressor in almost every case ya'll, s'not a talking thing, words are a tell) all ground out in see-through circles, calling Maia ice-cream like everybody else; pity my small world.
Am I having a slow-burning crisis of self (not into psychotic breaks, don't want to be a splitter)? A commonplace existential dilemma (chess with flaming death...spot me a rook yo)? A clichéd chemical change catalyzing changes in what's blocking/filling what with what down there in the electrical soup of me? Sweet 6 lb 8 oz baby Jesus I hope not, cause that always looks sordid and back-spacing when I see it acted out, not fast-forward and bliss-seeking. NOTE: My little girl (and yours if you have 'em) knows more about this than all of us oldlings, no mud in her eyes yet...maybe she'll go over that stuff with me while I teach her to read our behavior and respond to all our dirty tricks.
I look the same, act the same, but to be completely candid...inside I'm starting to snarl. I wonder how long that'll go on...
