A Countability

Throwing the board.

Guess it was my turn to throw the board. Moments where a fury suddenly erupts. A spontaneous arousal of hilarity at the edge of tomorrow. That hits a bounce, a deranged minirebellion.

Throwing the board. Again. My chop suey side. Frankenstein coming to life.

Declarations : It’s over it’s over — So I dont have to actually do, what I say I want to…

Odd thing is, it is always in some way inspired. Vivid threads congeal into park and prey mutations, the scarf off other minds.

Why became most important to learn not to take myself too seriously. Especially when half cocked with blasts of excitement over occasional deliriums — that encroach through mind fields, officiously of sacred and the absurd.

Where borders the hysterical is a wild defiance with reality. Maniac at the controls, for folly or mischance and suddenly “peeking” on chop suey side.

Damn the grifters, damn the graft. Redolent with incendiary magic. And because it is occult it registers as magic.

But to say there is nothing better than a good shoot out – is dead wrong, it’s transgressive.

The question is, much like in Cervantes, about being taken up by a sacred cause to make things right. A madness it may be – both ridiculous and noble, but also in its catch encompasses a magnificence, sublime beyond life.

It’s my belief, and in some sense relief, that in Sam Beckett — the old man wins… He never gives up. It makes a difference. It only appears not to make a difference. †

Whatever can get away with – should try?

Well, it’s important to admit that there can occur a tormented sense of pleasure over the sublime, that evolves into an hysteria, that rushes after the truth.

And in that part, there are costs, painful even obscene contortions of sorrow, that must be transgressed if only to keep on going.

Even so it aches for clarity, even so can burst open savagely suddenly for freedom – Sometimes just for room to think!

This morning, woke up vaguely in a dream hugging George Kastanza. Character from Seinfeld (comedy show based “on nothing”) who always f’d up, again and again thinking it was all over now – that he was without a doubt about to be fired.

But then somehow George was considered useful. He’d habitually invent some outrageous excuse and miraculously get promoted. Of course the bosses were promoting him based on their own flights of tyranny more outrageous than his.

So Morning After: Fury morphs into a Mantra memory proclaiming it’s nothing, it’s nothing in Seinfeld’s voice from the show.

Throwing boards, had to become, just another part of my stash somehow, interjecting out of the inspired, to gain in spirit.

To push till breaks, cozened to indefinite magnitudes becomes stuck at infinity.

Admit the worst. Nothing else quite like running into a wormweb, vvermiculate minds, shooting marbles for best bounce. When another’s thoughts starts taking up space in time, its occultness is in its transfrom-ation.

The magic that comes about from throwing the board, and its consequences, however hysterical or even bereft, found semi-precious. Laughter in it, though no cure for longing over vestiges of having a heart (nummy, balmy and wretched) still presents a transit to window and the spool.

Call me fool for the tool plays afoot warped in tender loot. For what freedom means turns to dreams.