Get you next time...

Winter, the humbler. Taunting the snowy peak on castle-storming errands, four wheels gambling from valley to top, introducing the new myth of the No Lives Snowcap. Or…mid-day walks, stalking wind’s brisk current through my neighborhood. Recluse to the garage’s freeloader for busy hands and summer dreams where the tickets to ride are always warnings at worst. That’s the shit end of a fresh dip outside the former high tide line. Near a mile above, not the time to revisit the below. The free space that was once held by loaded Irish coffees till noon to overflow the writing stream red-eyed behind the laptop screen, typing as the words blur. Never reread the orange notebook. None. Mental push-ups to get the placebo effect of the imaginative inner monologues, pressing me—US—me forward into the oblivion of daylight. “Would you like a bag?”

“Huh? No thanks. Have a good one.”

So, the hunt for the seasonal, closed-door distraction to bring a sense of liberating glow to breathtaking grey skies, leaking, pouring over the peaks in menacing suspense. It sniffs; it hunches on its paws. I could just stare, it’s worked before live screen saver while traffic-observing. There are options. Listening to the gut groan without the disgust to pave a way in the dark business-as-usual, only existing on the precipice’s edge in the solar rays versus on the hands and knees patting the dirt for the drop of legend, feeling self-gaslit as the inner self decides to stand. It never moves. You don’t stop feeling, you feel with a new—former system. No control, no menu, nor setup steps. Lush lines to play with contextually in the mean team, mine and others. A better position to operate in confused me. Rush to clarity dissected on the assembly line. I have seconds to pick a color, reminder, rhythm, topics of the latest Wall on Willem Podcast. Not the “Process” I give a damn about, but different strokes. Loaded with imagery, focuses on where the energy that powers the legs outward bound comes from. There are more laws skipping but skipping the fancy ones, puzzle pieces fit where the director’s directions add a particular solidarity to inner notions not—not screaming the loudest in hate of the old. “Like I said, I’m getting somewhere.”

“Yet you say you have no faith.”

First winter of ‘gag-me with a spoon’ enchantment fills rushed. I know I’m late, what’s winter gonna do? Sue? Sure, but not sure how to do what used to fall out of the sky. Knowing, Mr. Joe, is what started the fuck up on the battlefield in the first place. (Why that show is cancelled.)

[Trying not to try so you can try not trying… or something like that. That’s the main bit]

Gibberish until my funny little brain says each try is redefined, and lists all of the side meanings, then the context created caves in the chest, sort of speak. Trying not to break, snap in half beyond the Mask state, holding illusions as you try, with all of you, to accept the passivity that places you on the current, that makes use of the whistling crack of that window. Let them in for glass' sake. Stop--While the line [ ] is a holdover from a spiritual guide from a show I enjoyed but barely remember, my answer, contextually, wasn’t looked up before having this idea, second opinions, nor verified that the reference is right. Strongly suggested that the show’s content is only the catalyst for the thought I needed here. Not that it mattered since it’s an example with my new reading passion filling the space/time, the meaning of the old phrase that, at the time, took episodes to understand. Maybe I just got it now. Making life moves strictly on embodying the interpretations of TV lines, internalized while learning. A test run in rebel wizardry above my pay grade, behind my shivering mask, left of Nightmaric traumas, revealing (gross) faith I didn’t know what I had. Now I like the whole word ritualistic. “Don’t see the point.”

“Is that really necessary?”

It’s about trusting the process, Mona says, middle finger held low-key. Can’t say it always feels great living, also, in the dark of mountains, lost in the monotony. It got me here; can’t knock the spiraling effect of a routine when growth—progress takes hold. I wonder where the next engulfing will come from. What inspiration, what happenstance, wily glance, sudden mission will let loose another rogue wind from the road’s end for what the mask will be useful for as the daemon gets their way. Not only for the search, can’t say I’ve taken solace in all the research, but maybe the rhetoric outlined during my mad dash from the old text. To let it be what it will, to not be the subject of the kill for the hell/thrill of it; I’ll remain somewhat still. See you next winter.