Monday, Dec. 09, 2002, 1:54 AM


I think I'm going indifferent, or mad, but I still use a coaster for my tea. All day I have had a heavy heart. It's crying and I want to. And I can't stop thinking about what you asked me...what do I want?

I don't know. God, but I want to.

I want to visit a large body of water. I want to smell the sour air and have my lips taste salty after standing in a breeze on a pier. I want to hear the insects buzz over dunes and sea grass swaying above white sand that has been beaten down from the stone of the mountain and carried thousands of miles to support me as I watch one wave crest after another.

I'm sorry that I have you as a captive audience. Sometimes, at least it used to, it helps to get the thoughts out of my head where they go on bouncing around and causing a terrible racket so distracting that I want only to shout and shout in hopes of drowning out everything. So instead I'll sit with headphones turned up loud and concentrate on moving my fingers fast enough to capture those annoying little thoughts before they bounce off and away with a ping to the far side of my mind where they will lie in wait until I have turned off my computer and myself and settled into my bed with weak springs. And they will chase sleep away when my thoughts get those fuzzy dream edges closing in from the sides.

I feel time flowing under my feet and I can't do anything.

And now I know that you are wavering betwixt adoration and hesitation because the French horns have started playing in my head. It sounds so sweet and it is like a movie when the evil has passed over the forest and the animals hear the sweet music playing and it lets them know that it is safe to come out from burrow or bush and drink the light of day from big sloppy puddles that drip down from the leaves.This pouring, outpouring of emotion that reflects everything more beautiful than it would be if viewed under fluorescent lights. But hey, fluorescence casts a pale across anything bright.

Maybe you could paint me a picture of something free that I could hope for from my cage and wonder what it is to be free and happy and flying above the drek that soils my clothes and tries to work itself into my spirit. And I want to cry because I can see the beauty in everything and I just want to release it. My stream of consciousness is running amuck and over it's banks and I think I have finally flooded any notion of truth. And my fingers haven't stopped since I've started and the breakwater is holding because I'm bailing everything, everything out as fast as it comes to my fingers. Well, I have been typing and I know that when I look up it will be over because enough has been emptied to send the emergency crews back to bed, but I want to see what is at the bottom of my pool of thought. Perhaps Excalibur. Perhaps it's just choked with the muscles of desire clustered around the drains of emotion. But I'll never make it to the bottom because I can't hold my breath that long and I'm scared. I think, I know, I'm scared to know. To know what I want, what I think, How I feel, and why. I'm afraid I have built a stand too high to ever want to achieve. I suppose I'm afraid of finding my father, or my image of my father. Did I bury him at the bottom of the sea with Davy Jones' locker, the old Monkee's albums, and Jimmy Hoffa?

I dream about gills. About people in my dreams having gills and swimming in the water with the fishes and me always watching. Last week I had gills for the first time and I was doing the swimming.

My legs are asleep and my mind is numb and I suppose that is what I was looking for, but not when I planted my Bonsai tree today. Perhaps I can grow, dwarfed and all. But I have a problem shaping anything. I'm afraid I would just let my Bonsai grow. Or, as Michelangelo said, I may be freeing the form within. He said that of the twelve-foot slab of marble that held his David. He said he saw it and he set it free. Perhaps he should have left it alone. Perhaps not. And I wonder what would have happened if they cut the stone wrong and he presented the city with a torso and nothing more, "I found this lying around in a slab of stone that was lying around on its stomach in my studio. I hope you like."

Time for more tea.

And I'll bet you're thinking that if I had wings I would be a Cherub.

Someday I'll write a book on the Zen art of dishwashing and how having a rock in your shoe is a very Zen thing, right after I start a religion based on Twinkies. Hey, if that guy got off using Twinkies as his defense for killing people maybe I can use it as an alibi for my credit card debt.

I feel so close to breaking through. I can see the world on the other side of the ice and I hope that the water isn't too cold, but hey, I wanted to jump in with both feet. It does one thing-it gets your head below water. I'm trying to swim, and where are my gills now?

Will you keep the home fires burning, or the home fronts? Money doesn't buy happiness, it builds temples. Is it any wonder that the church is the richest entity on earth?

A string a thread a needle and tasty preschool paste wouldn't be enough to string together the disjointed mind, unless it didn't mind. Huh? Huh! But the scary thing is that I only participate in half of my dreams. In the rest I watch everyone else run around like characters acting out a play for my bemusement.