A few minutes from now will be the anniversary of me plopping out into the world once again, if that kind of things happens, you know, reincarnation, reinventing the self. 1:14 AM. We see this painting of Christ where he’s coming through the canvas, just hands and feet, no face, the face obscured. My friend says that’s about right, “He’s really not in our image after all…”
Another man is handing out precious jewels at the soup kitchen that are worth millions of dollars and people are getting pissed because you see that the guy is just picking up rocks off the ground and calling them what he wants. But is that so bad? I love rocks, after all. This was a good one, smooth oval, I would’ve accepted it graciously as a present. My friend gave me a plum for my birthday wrapped in a little towel which I soon chomped at the pool table, playing a pretty good game that night. And the month is not over. 31 days I’m taking for myself, sorta tricking myself that I have actual cause to celebrate anything at all at this point, yet I smile sometimes not knowing why and not knowing why does not stop smiling from turning to laughter and when this kind of laughter comes on the joy rushes through my arms through my hands and legs and eyelids and chest and stomach and…
I was in a rush to get into the world or at least the world was in a rush to get into me, like so many others pushed through grades. So many jobs waiting for us. A place to put us. So many shitty jobs waiting for us, really basic ones. What’s the matter?
Fail and flail and fall into the batter.