Swing Tree

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.." says Mr. Robert Frost. Of late, there has been so little birch swinging. Where is the debauchery? The magic? I've been reading lots of literature and the words on the page are teasing me. Go out and play! they taunt. Do something worth writing about. Instead, there are violet circles under my eyes and clean sheets on my bed. Paperwork is due and the seasons are static, winter never blooming into spring. I was cleaning up the school theatre with my friend Isaac, stacking chairs and talking psychedelic drugs. We were discussing the possibilities of that minute splice of reality [the one we perceive regularly] becoming thicker and more brilliant when the doors of perception opened. Would drugs allow that to happen? Or would those drug-induced revelations be phony? Would it matter if we felt excited? We're thirsty for revolution, revelation, something please something. If life doesn't begin, I'm going to hide, just wrap myself in some blankets and emerge in a month, with glittering wings and a bad case of bedhead. I have to find some birches of my own and swing for a little while. This monotony of dirty clothes and spin cycle and bureaucracy is absolutely no Fun. Youth is for Fun! Capital F. I might be playing into a gross misreading. Maybe I should be spinning on a stationary bike for hours at a time, and reading up on buddhist practice, sitting on a rooftop with bottled water and a lotus blossom in my hair. But we're composed of opposites and piety has to be pitted up against something darker, more electric, more soulful. 21 has to be great.