Friday, February 09, 2007

Technicolor Madness

The States is a technicolor madness, I had forgotten how much color there is here in this land of Oz. There is no sameness, everything is different. Everyone looks different, smells different, speaks different.

There is an idle slowness of pace here that makes me uncomfortable and nauseous. Maybe it was my own experience with my forty hour day that made it seem so endless, but I don't believe that to be true. Time crawled as people moved around and I took up the role of "pleasant small talk" maker to entertain the crowds. I sing and sing and sing, because this is what I must do to maintain the roles I've carved for myself with this family I've carved out of nothing.

My mind is a furor and fancy. Flitting about flighty and still unhinged and I begin to wonder how long someone can go mad before they really are? Not much longer, I'm well, my head is settled, but the things around me seem to gnash at more then they have before.

I'm afraid of the US, I realize. Too much living here, too much hope, and dream, and unrest, and things unfilled, unsatisfied; too many wants and desires, too much stasis. Have I changed so much that without the fast moving, fast talking pace of my own private hinterland that I am nothing? Life is a projection. I listen to the conversation around me because I can hear it and understand it for the first time in a year and the idleness frightens me, horrifies me. I think on Peggy Lee and hum to myself while I'm listening "Is that all there is?" Everyone looks at my strangely. I unsettle and upset. I can see it in the subtle body movements of those around me. A hand pulled away quickly, eyes averted, arms cross, people move closer to their friends, and talk slower, and try not to see me, and I try not to be seen. We have a mutual dislike of these unknowns. We have a mutual desire to disassociate with this self construct that we are living. Perhaps I will be lucky and dissemble completely.

I make my plans and send out the phone calls and shouts in the dark. Heavy planning is how I will get through this. I know where I will be and when, there is no down time, no time to think, no time to mull on anything or over anything. Still too much time, I sleep at night and my dreams remain a carnival of all my worst nightmares and I cannot settle. I wake up with arms around me and I weep anyway because I have no control over my thoughts. My therapist would lament all that hard work gone for naught. Where is my power if I can't take it here?

Too many memories here, too much living, and all of it no longer me. No art for a month, and I find my mind full of thought. Creative urge is taking over and needs release, outlet that I have not had. I push creativity into everything else. I push it into idle conversation, reading, emotion, sex, memory, pushing and shaping and changing and renewing and remaking and still it's not enough. Manic desire, manic artist, I wonder if the other artists ever felt this. I wonder if I will ever achieve more then my own mediocre self satisfaction; a mind fuck that works only on me.

I write and I write and I write, otherwise my thoughts would still haunt me. I weed out thoughts, find them where they hide and push out. Push those thoughts onto the screen because I have become accustomed to pushing those thoughts out and setting myself free. I want the allusive freedom that comes with confession, but I know me too well. All those things I need to say will never come out completely and this is a good thing.

The States are strange. I prepare to drive across the country in a two days and I wonder how much more madness I can take. A sign I read on the turn towards the stopping place at this leg of the journey says "Wanted Alive: 10 families." The sign stood outside a church and I nearly wet myself for laughing at the absurdity and horror of it as I try settling my mind back around this cast-off home.

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