god was a good idea – until love came along.

29 January 2011 § Leave a comment

I was once told that if I was going to write, do it with an empty stomach. My stomach isn’t empty.

This dread will not take me over again. A positive attitude is my only ally now, and sometimes I can see it breathing fog onto the window when I start looking at the sky instead of the road. The road, the road, the road. Yes, we’re old friends, and I’ve found that part of the world, tucked it away into my zippered pocket, and I take it out like that old photograph in the little ziplock bag – because it’s fallen into the ocean a few too many times, has grains of sand embedded into in the emulsion, and when I need to get away from Now, there it is. The idea is there, to escape, to run. But that’s the easy part. I can do that whenever I like. I fear nothing about the road. The challenge is here, life, in the everyday that I cannot bring myself to commit my life of travel in order to avoid entirely.

Hip hop is keeping me afloat, like metal once did, except this time around, I know more – and my ear is more refined to ideas. It is not my PFD, that annoying, suffocating foam thing I wear when packrafting that occasionally saves my life, but it is banksy’s rat, running on the wheel inside my head that never stops. It is a rodent with endurance and perseverance, and it’s a wise one, like Splinter, that lets me know when I’m fucking things up so I can back off and fix myself. It’s the beat I tap my fingers to. Constantly. Ask me to stop again, facebook girl, and I’ll implode. It won’t be pretty.

I don’t need a telescope to know there’s no god up in the sky, and if all the laws that Mushroom Moses saw being written were accurate, the lack of lightning strikes now proves my point. But the point is not the point – the point is the idea. And I believe in what all that’s about. God’s not one of us, you sad, sad voice on the radio – god is us. godzai is my lazy eye when it focuses on you, when I’m listening to what you’re saying, and it’s the fear right before you jump south into the ocean from that bayside cliff.

Go to sleep on midsummer’s night and I’ll conjure up the stars again. I waded through that passive mess to come out on the other side, at my wit’s burning end, refreshed. The labyrinth isolated only those who were alone, and the pantheon of ice in the artificial night made me realize what I’ve been missing all this time: I’m one of you. And I can change everything else, and hold on to the music that collects dust up on the shelves, revise my speech a hundred times in hopes that you would notice, discern the differences between joy and love and pleasure, but I can’t take myself away from this, to call my self something else ’cause I felt like I deserved it.

I have to wonder if there’s a single moment that an idea becomes a belief, an epiphany in which I’m supposed to actualize what I keep telling myself, like those moments when we read a fact and for whatever reason, it gets stored in the long-term “I-know-this-and-will-defend-its-truth” memory. Until then, it represents a hope to the contrary – that no, I don’t have to believe this, I can hope that it’s not true, and that’s where my heart is.

That last part will keep the epiphany at bay.



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