1000 Words a day Challenge: day 3

Broken dirty, tired foreign bodies strew the ground and the great grey cake of time and love fires bolting, loving, tremendous into the sunset of yawning yore, oh God the love, the love, rhymes with Levov. An unbroken strain of folly, follicle, lovely, lovable, the return to pure stream the return to everlasting loving embrace. Build, talk, cheap sundry trees, marvelous things, brown bark and green leaves, impossible wind and staggering, studiously wondrous, love and men, male intimacy lost in the modern in part to the kertwanging of gender rolls closing, then opening, then closing like a barn door in dry desolate wind. Fine grains made smooth mountains, made arid peaks, made simple guarantees.

Waking, rising, breathing thing, come, come! Speak and scream, cry and open, turn and fade, step, step, step, always on the march, the move, the longing languid lugubrious pathos of sweet, simple, salubrious Sally, step oh step oh step, one two. The sunlight finds homes, giant castles of glass to trap and extract, to transgress Q boundaries, no work, not here, only slowly rising temperatures. A sea of air, floating and bobbing on the cooler air below, a sea above an ocean, and trapped, bounded, always bound in crossing lines in shining opalescence, scatter born blue from time and chance, yellow when straight, when shone, when directed, give it time dear friends, give it time the green distance between them is fixed, is fixed, but the space around us will force a consequence and blue and blue and blue. Heat death, or red sun, titans come, titans come.

I loved everything I wrote, when it left my fingers it was like joy, a sexless drug, I wanted and almost did feel the aged rush of sexual interest, sexual tension, even if I delete it, still it will exist in me, the melting joy, the melting joy of tension easing, the singing angels not in stentorian tones but in a glory of melting gold, the soft melting like fat in a pan, that which seeps and soften and sees joy burst forth, the great bountiful joy here in this place in my mind my great and ponderous Oz and I lusting after more did wish and wish and wax in-desperate for the high to never end, let me be here forever, let me be here in this place forever and without reservation, let the distractions not come, let the fire of this place not take me.

Only, give them shape. Give them structure. Give them aid. Don’t coddle the boy, give him enough, just enough, and praise so much praise, give him enough, just enough and sometimes too little but sometimes too much, give him what he needs to survive and let him come to find he can do it, can take charge, wants to take charge, wants to prove that, find a way to help him prove that, the will, take the will and give it shape, take the will and direct the will, these structures will happen anyway. The boy will want to go out and explore, the boy will want to leave and find and test. Is that safe? For him to have this growing desire with no help, no structure, only resistance? What would you want to happen? What if there was a ritual to help relieve that? What if there was a ritual to help relieve that pressure, to give it direction, to give it safety? What about other desires that act as consistently part of human experience? What about other desires? What are we to do with those other desires? Are we really to just deal with them? No structure at all I take it then?

I need obstacle and intention. I need something. What are a woman’s concerns? A woman is worried about money just like men, is worried about safety not like men even though both do it, is worried about sex and comfort and relationships and connecting and rubbing soles and loving and being loved and loving especially well and being pretty and being socially championed, and being honed, and being brought up on shoulders on high and truly, like deeply loved for the real for the real and true. A girl wants to be loved the way a man wants to yoke and a woman wants to yoke the way a man wants to love. These are gross generalizations with or without the bell curve. Well, with the bell curve? Not with the bell curve because then one must identify boundary conditions for the initial statement if it was even to make sense. No trait is definitionally represented equally across the bell curve let alone the very idea which is being examined with the bell curve in the first place. The sexual hang ups are defined by early experiences and emotional patterns. Almost sure of it. The perversions are related to strong triggers, strong deep triggers, things which one would have to approach with the right metaphor if one was to approach at all. What is the difference in vision? You escaped the well, the trough of acting and feeling in all ways which act to sustain ones own correctness, ones own sense, self-judged or otherwise, of correctness, ones own lived reality encased and ensconced in correct and/or assuming ones interlocutor means bad faith and/or choosing to assume the belief “others were wrong” as a point worthy of investigation and then trying, to maintain those strategies of fair dealing even in your investigation, and you fucked up and got called on it so many times and then actually adjusted to try to stop whatever lead you to being called on in the first place, that now you have whole areas of thought barely polluted by your own self-interest. Not because you don’t initially feel the self-interest, and not because you then identify the self-interest is happening and then make it stop, but because you continue to try even when you shouldn’t while they think they’re right and then don’t, praise Orwell.

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