Incise/Adhere

William Burroughs was the first to introduce me to the idea of cutting and pasting words, which is a technique he used for his landmark work The Naked Lunch. The following are exerts from drafts of posts I never posted. I notice them just sitting there when I create new posts, but I just ignore them. Tonight I found parts I liked in each one, but I didn't like the overall piece of any of them. So I took the parts I liked from each entry and cut and pasted them into this one entry. Order does not exist for this one, but the sections kind of work nicely together. Thanks to Burroughs for inspiring me with his disorder. These sections span between the months of May and June of '06.

Clap the sound of the colors in the panaroma of your dreamy whispering mind's release awake to break that circle you've been plotting with your steps, actions, and words daily, hourly, foreverly in a torturous ritual in the bathroom, where no one can know what I think or say or feel behind stall walls of semi-privacy I thought these things tonight:

Today, May 34
The black crawled across the lightness inside, scurrying for shadows in this illuminated interior. It felt like the lifting of spring breezes inside, carrying away the charred, and smoke, and dirt. It felt like deep breathing and serenity and open opportunity. I felt like I grabbed a second in the brief flash of change and it was a lucky card of chanced fate.

There stood the deer. There stood spirituality. There stood chance. We saw it and quietly sat down to observe the natural act meant for us...starting in a crowded bar....ending at the sight of the brown deer against a quiet, blackened, shadowy backdrop.
We had more to learn from this evening than what appeared so easily to others.

May 68
I sat at the bar and waited on some idiot that I didn't like to bring me something that I didn't need or want, but was somehow involved and tied up in with anyway for some other idiot. Stupid. I drank another beer and tried to make conversation with the barkeep even though this was the 10,000th day of the same ol' thing. My life is and was bullshit and I still drove to the same place because I had no one and nothing and nowhere else to be. I wrote in my journal until the lines blurred and the drunks crowded. Sometimes I would play the jukebox but that was the same ol' tunes, just in a different order. I knew the banality of bland non-direction.

We found an inlet into greenery and solitude and a rushing stream, and there we found...silent, forgotten trails girded with webs and forgotten plants and ticks and any other nuisance of nature. You get the feeling that you are intruding into their quietness and solitude; indeed you are, because you crave that escape from the rails and roads and elevators and liars and obligations and sadness of the city, which is and has become your pathetic, unfulfilled life. But...we were intruding into that nature escape together.

And the grass blades bent and the birds picked at problematic feathers and watched and the river could be heard, if we were quiet. And in that hidden, Indian-like space, we found that the future was much, much bigger than ever imagined. The sun moved us on, in its dwadling descent, and shook us out of our state of comfort and soon we were back to roads and separation and rails and buses and phone calls and long, lonely walk homes...empty except for those sturdy stars of hope that dot the expansive black sky of night.