not really, no

thank you but i'm not especially interested in what you have to offer, through a clear but thin filmy veneer i watch you, life, and feel removed. i wake with full intention of sleeping anew and walk with every intention of sitting down, once again, upon an aged rock with a sweet view of your lake, the depth of which is satisfyingly unknown. i'd rather not know, thank you, i'd rather wait here twisted up tightly within the confines of my polka-dot imagination, imagining you, imagining us, effortlessly and endlessly hopeful. the footsteps before me are muddy, sloppy, chewy, unappetizing, but the pristine green of unexplored terra offers nothing, fails to impress, without your presence. i recognize my right to self-annihilation via psychological meltdown as just one more drop in this god-forsaken bucket. god whistles as she walks down the street, one hand in her coat pocket, the other grasping the handle of our holy mother bucket, sloshing the wet contents about, spilling a bit here and there, careless. she goes home to wash her feet in the bucket; splash her floors for a good mopping; douse wandering flames; scrub her radiant, oblivious face with all of us. to what end to what end to what end do we scramble do we stumble and run do we reach and strain on our knees and then sit back on our heels, shake our heads, and have a good cry? how unbecoming it is to become something less-than, other-than, to fragment yourself into shapes, great triangles of upright citizenship, rhombuses of righteousness, spheres of schedules and tasks and expectations, pyramids postulating over nothing, like walking, talking picasso-esque jumbles of flesh and ego and hardened calcium deposits, fervently claiming dust. how unbecoming to ride death's train toward the inevitable, nodding as the scenery reflects your Grand Progress, counting the cows as you pass, wondering when the dining car opens, yawning, scratching your belly, wishing for an extra pair of socks, making room for new passengers, winking over firm handshakes to those about to depart, nodding at signs that indicate your final approach. No, that's not for me, not really, no. i prefer the insane and gratifying style of the whirling dervish, spinning as a great storm with no track to run, no "one way," picking up and spitting out whatever crosses my path, neatly destructive, ruining one avenue while preserving another completely, frivolous, ignorant, open, skirt blown up, hair tangled as the thickest knot of pine trees, eyes closed, hands open, wandering aimlessly in pursuit of pure joy until i tumble, unexpectedly, over life's final cliff.

bits + pieces

lying on the floor, i turned my head to the right and noticed my hand lying palm up, fingers slightly curled as muscles loosened. i wondered to myself if this is what my wrist, palm and fingers will look like just after i die. i expanded the thought and considered myself seriously dead, wondering about body position - will i be horizontal? will i be curled up? will i lie on my back, belly up, fierce toward the world? then i considered my death in action, and imagined myself taking my sharpest knife to my stomach, here on the floor.
then i stopped. who has thoughts like these? this is dangerous. or is it just taboo? let's keep going and find out. i was too tired to get off the floor and go to the kitchen to find the knife anyway, so i figured my laziness would win over my imagination, and keep me safe.
knife tip into stomach, right side. what would i find inside? could i reach in and pull anything out before i lost consciousness? could i have a look at my liver, my kidney, my heart before i go? what if i engineered this well and dissected my body before i died? could i chop myself up before i lost enough blood to have the strength to go on? next thought: i would tear up pieces of paper and write the names of loved ones. i would line the pieces of paper up across the floor and deposit the appropriate body part next to each piece, like an offering. or a museum exhibit. to whom would i give which part of me? i'd have to start at the bottom, i suppose. one toe per friend; hopefully no one would take offense to the implication of size differential between toes. who gets my heart? who gets my stomach? does any one person deserve my whole brain? could i divide it in half? that would have to be the final stroke before lights out, so i'd angle the fall just in front of the papers.
what struck me most about this process was not that fact that i was chopping myself up or offering my body to the people around me; rather, that i was considering who might take offense at the body part they were offered. would my mom be jealous if my father got my right brain? would more than one person expect my heart? what does an eyeball represent? protection? wisdom? humour? (who wants an eye, anyway?) i was concerned with whether or not people would be pleased with a portion of my decaying flesh, as an extension of myself. all i can do is laugh, and keep my knives in their drawer.