A Stream of Unconsciousness

 

This is the last page in my journal. The last chance I have to say this. Today is a day to thrive, to live, to live in the moment, not just talk about living in the moment, a day to burn the past from photographs and stop the delusions about the future dead in their tracks. Put a stop to the madness of fantasy. Fantasies, all fantasies, all constructed by a mind that wishes fervently yet fantasizes failure. Fantasies that deconstruct and detonate the now; fantasies that lead me to believe the lies I trot out for approval.   This is the only day I have. Not one more. The only moment I have is now, the fleeting now that is always gone and expired and dead to my awareness that wants to stick on the now then does a double take choosing to look back or onward. Right now this moment is sealed with ink poured onto my last page, out of my pen, held in my hand, emblazoned on the page like a blood-stamp on a missive describing the last day of my life. This is the last day of my life. The music crowds closer filling my ears with caresses of soft colors the way music does. I don’t want to hear words, or talk anymore, just write the truth that exposes the fantasies and reveal the false fronts that are everywhere trying to crowd in and the music is all I will let close while the words spill out of me. The music is the warm water in a baby’s first bath poured onto my face. My last day is a perfect moment for the baby’s first bath, splashed like a baptism that shows the way and opens my eyes to deep imprints I make in the snow of this very moment. I need this ushered in by the spectacle of God realizing that though it may be my last day there is still room to be born and splashed awake.   Awakened to the moment that is now, one that I never saw in the first place.  What about this snow? The world is like snow piled up on itself and when I want to get somewhere I cannot float above it. So I sink into deep ruts making my own canyons and crevasses. Momentous footprints are burned and scalded into the snow of new thought. The vast white expanse is a tabula rasa viewed from a helicopter. The hovering being of my true self watching from above, from the side even from below all at once debating how to plant the footfalls of an authentic me into this fluffy façade of snow that coats and hides and deceives the firmament boiling up beneath. Ideas mined from the boiling firmament. The land that fractured and rose up out of the ocean when the earth split long before consciousness paraded along the boulevards leading to this last day. This day, the only day that I have to write everything on the very last page of my journal opens itself to me like a hand from the sky guiding me over treacherous terrain.  It is feeling less like a blood-stamp and more like blood itself from my marrow embraced and held up and poured with my being, then put onto the page. What about this ocean? It all started there, it is all tied to the ocean. It is how the love of water transcends all hate and nothingness.  The events of my life cling together like a frightened allegory. Unlikely verses tangle with history. Sentences and stanzas couple and copulate their way into the weaver’s den knitting together artifacts inside the factory. Ousted islands of suspicion take over the cartographer’s obsession. Women arrive strumming their harps like inadvertent vivisectionists capturing the spurting blood inside lanterns with false warnings. The glow of an enticing future captured in blood. The stanzas of the allegory are recited in sections like canopied archipelagos strung together in a maze. Prisoners of thought resolve out of resentments on these islands working the cast-iron wheels spinning the sacred thread of the chrysalis. My flights of fantasy rear up and take away my future, distort the ultimate reality with delusional outcomes that I create and swear by until the future arrives and I am not there to experience it. False warnings reluctantly arrive. The moment sprouts dove’s wings for that eternal moment then it joins the hive. My graceful beliefs about enjoying the truth of the moment are kidnapped and held hostage, clawed at and torn to shreds by a fantasy that believes in failure. I think fantasies will merge with the storefront of the moment and then the world throws itself at me. The kitchen sink: the myriad events, children born to be afflicted. People, events, weather, traffic, attitudes, drumrolls, marches, television fabrications, advertising insults to intelligence, PT Barnum with the world’s stage designed to deceive under the confidence of false truths. All the world’s confidence men descend onto a thirty-second advertisement during the super bowl. The opportunity to completely close off a global population from the moment with a hook into desire created through years of bait and switch, falsified realities and turnstiles leading to dire consequences of loss. The scam is the game. The con is the truth of the scam with reality turned on its head. Distorted reality served in a delicious arrangement festooned with the accouterments that unleash desire. There is a settlement I must come to in my own mind, to trade away the past’s tendency to fold into my awareness while the possibilities of what is yet to come crowd in from another side, both conspiring to distort my singular vision of the moment. I have the desire to turn the moment into a culture. A village of sacred visions added and pooled siphoning delicate awareness and top-tier attention pressed up against the glass of the moment, feeling the fog of my breath on the tangible aspects of the precariously exposed and fleeting moment. Sea-doors of driftwood and bronze floating on the serrated waves opening into deep attachments of cylindrical tubes leading down like ocean tunnels carved into the deep sea leading down into the abyss occupied by bizarre creatures with absurd tentacles pressing up against the transparent walls like mimes. There is no breath only salt crusted onto the glass barrier with inflammation mounting on the interior of this passageway to and from the depths. Soon this collection of sea-organs reach the top and sprout out of the waves like a whale’s blow hole conceding a kaleidoscopic arcade out of the trap-door. Pulsing into the open air like music harnessing the origin of sound from the electric eel. A harpsichord accustomed to playing underwater unleashed into the howling night lanced by lightening strikes and driven by the resounding bass drum of thunder. The fanfare encourages waves of exploding amphibious life; aggregates shot up and raining down now like grenades puncturing the water’s glass shield, unbuttoning the closure between history and myth. All the while schooners with giant nets and bearded captains wearing rain hoods lavish their time searching while fighting off the flying frogs that now festoon the masts and expanses of the ship’s sails weighing down the deck with frog carcasses fileted open with viscera pinned down and exposed to the sunlight in the manner of a middle school science project. The sailors and deck hands bail frogs with buckets as the ship begins to sink under the weight of amphibious cadavers, and now sharks sidle up to the starboard and port flanks with their jaws gleaming against then velvet sky. Dead frog are systematically machined into paste by the predatory fish and this chum draws schools of other curious ocean life and all begin to circle the ship and smell the occupants of the schooner and hold them hostage. And so I arrive at the state of pure desire-less joy, the state of my soul just before death.  It is what I crave daily and not the illusion telling me that either the regrettable past or the anxiety-provoking future is actually the real now. That is a falsity my brain creates to make me want; to increase desire and to instill desire for the unobtainable. Why do I rush like an impatient child? Running to and fro between states of instant gratification born inside to cover up insecurity and paltry self-worth leading to more congestion and confusion. Traffic, impediments, obstacles, people in my way, lines, delays, airport check-in counters, rush-hour grocery lines, stadium parking lots, doctor’s and dentist’s offices all conceal the moment, blur the moment into a distressing fantasy. The logic that plays into my view of future events assumes the posture of failure and winds itself up like a toy pointed to march straight at a wall, ramming and banging itself against the wall, not realizing the wall is there at all, until its wind-up charge is exhausted. This toy hears the moment calling, this marching drummer hears the far-away instructions pulled from deep in the unconscious part of my mind devoted to failure and loss and focused on running out of time and coming up short and saying the wrong thing all the while losing the love of a queen who lives in the invested moment that I have trouble locating.