Kick the Can

We watched some footage of the deep sea and I later had deep sea dreams. The ocean deep, full of those swimming, circling, shimmering, singing beasts. It's always terrified me. You want to know what's living in those mysterious reefs and crevices but you're frightened for the inevitable slick bodied beast brushing up against you. In lit class, we talked Pynchon. I walked into class half an hour late, thinking myself punctual, the usual nightmare of everyone bright eyed and pen poised while you are oblivious. Anyway. I walked into half-baked revelations of 'the possibility of nothingness,' 'tragic aesthetics of the junkyard,' 'moment of catharsis,' 'potential formlessness,' 'smoking someone else's body,' 'dandelion wine,' and 'agency.' My head was spinning, fizzing around like a pill popped into water. I feel like I'm always looking for that moment of transcendence, the point at which yes everything is technicolor and yes it's symbiotic and life affirming and totally fucking sweet. When I read, I do sometimes feel that way. And yet, there is always the lapse between the crystal castles that words make, in all of their poetic grace, and the reality of an idea that couldn't ever be described. Too many times, I stutter, trying to put shape to something that is swirling around me. You know the Toreador fresco? The bull in the waves? Like that. Sitting there, coffee cup in hand, I was overwhelmed by the desire to understand. I was losing myself in the pages of it all, and in the possibility of reaching that place, the point where the waves settle and everything is salty and clear. Of course, life isn't linear like this. And a new wave is always rushing toward. I look forward to that too, propulsion forward into a new blue. It's just a question of exploration: pushing your arms out into that deep.