Turns Me To Gold

I'd like to splice open the world with a thin blade and stick my hands inside it and feel the muscle pulsating there at my fingertips. I would like to watch a child being birthed and not turn my head at the sight of something so raw and animal. I've never been able to stand the sight of blood. There are certain thoughts that we suppress, for whatever reason. Something is too instinctively disturbing, too brutal, too sad, and we turn our faces. I want to put on a spacesuit, an enormous plastic helmet, and just fucking face it all. Today, I learned of Guy Debord, a leading member of the Situationalist Movement. As it was explained to me, he saw life as too beautifully synthetic. In all of its tidiness, we became slaves to it, unable to penetrate into the bleeding heart that makes for true experience. My writing tends to stay on the glass coating above the muddy ground. I don't often let my mind go into the deep deep underbelly but history is intrinsically inside. My grandparents once stood on the cliffs of Calabria, milking cows, or peeling oranges, or just generally waiting for life to begin. They came to America and what faced them was a bloody heart, pulsing and waiting to be listened to. I was born wearing rubber gloves. I just read this cyberpunk fantastical beast of a book called "Neuromancer," a text that created the idea of internet and cyberspace. It led to discussions of productivity, being a best self, the seamless universe of self, the possibility that progress isn't possible. It led to the idea of future and retrograde happening simultaneously. And this is crucial for me now. I want to move forward, propelled in a spaceship, through endless seasons and stars, into a place where The Golden Age awaits, filled as it will be with creative bliss and winds of change. But I'm only willing to move forward if I can carry the past, the weight of those past failures which inevitably brought the Italians to America, and Remy to this point. Nannu, my grandfather, is undoubtedly scratching his curling chest hair and wondering how his granddaughter became such a strange beast. That's okay. That's the point. I want to go harder, be stronger, be stranger. I have to look at that connection of veins and ventricles and stick my hands right into the mess of it. Otherwise, I'm just a synthetic thing.