Scuzzy but lovable spot

i'm sitting on the scuzzy but lovable spot, fretting over the "wrongness" of writing in this notebook at this time and place. what if it's not wrong, but the rightest thing there could be? what if it's right and true? what then?

i didn't know it was the scuzzy but lovable spot when i wandered over and decided it was an adequate place to sit down, to stop the random walk and freeze my thoughts in cubes. i needed to clear my head. the house had become a concrescence for inebriation-exacerbated emotion-driven delusion. stoned, drunk paranoid, arrogant, everything i do is wrong, everything i do is right.

so i'm writing what is wrong, right here, right now, on this scuzzy but lovable curve, grass-clotted bank, gravel-strewn curb, rounded sidewalk edge.

what is wrong at 4 am?

what justifies paranoia at 4 am?

navel grants the right of gazing. gazeright. the rite of gaze. tremulant paranoid associations pile up on this curb, nexus of two of town's siren-haunted highways, ambulance, fire, and police routes.

and i notice, in the dark night, in the cool breeze, in the basic warmth the atmosphere has trapped at this exotic latitude, on the plains, in a small american town, near the house i'm renting with my girlfriend, that i'm in the sweet spot of the circadian cycle, on this scuzzy curb, at 4 am. the rite of spring is cool like the breeze, and cool like jazz, and cool like the vast intergalactic intelligence which happens to catch this moment in nano-intersection during an icy ocular sweep. the temperature is perfect and i feel more comfort than i've dreamed possible since resigning myself to living, barely, in a chronically flawed and deteriorating body, in a necessarily savage society, being nice in a way that is, at its core, selfish tweaking of the endorphins that fire in response to acts i perceive as altruistic, aren't i nice? yes, nice, in the way nature selected, in the behavior algorithm proved to enhance survivability by genes of eons past, not necessarily in conjunction with this hyper-morphing tech-fueled clusterfuck, but in the grander evolutionary sense, the game of trial and error and error and error and error, the madness of the monkey's interval, his time in the sun, her time in the sun, when women aren't human but something better, if the dominance hierarchy disgusts you.

but this scuzzy curb somehow makes everything right for the moment, like a rite for the moment, a sacred write, and it's okay right now, but how long will now last?

cartoons squeeze through the mesh of a suddenly shut lucidity trap. filter.

lights change, magic fades. there is perception of hallucination. i'm seeing the sawteeth of death-dealing dynamics, kinetics of the moment, in bondage to the state.

remembering it's never too late for a change. classical raggae.

but the stubborn facts of gravity from the ages, circa copernicus, creep out of the woodwork. i find them engraved on the concrete tiles of city sidewalks, how did i miss them before? am i allowed to sit on the scuzzy spot and write this in a notebook? surely the city planners didn't intend that, surely that doesn't fit into the plan, surely not now, or ever. surely it's wrong, and surely i'm not the one to be that necessary paisley comma now, or ever. surely. surely the scuzzy but lovable spot is someone else's territory, at 4 am, illicit circadian territory, a state boundary that could kill you dead, for real, for ever and ever and ever, amen.

looking for leprechauns is a tiring pursuit. it wears at you. you wear your soul on your sleeve, and it wears the sleeve out. so you say fuck it and try to find werewolves. it's eternally justified, a rainbowpin to a honkey. thumps of heavy automotive machinery, a rickety u-haul attachment. walking back, i deem my head clear enough, enough to head back into the concrescence of familiar insanity. back to the house. mutual intoxication was proving more than i could deal with, malevolence and benevolence perceived in different ways, in different places, in conflicting superposition, a yin-yang engineered for symbiotic discord.

sometimes problems can be solved by sobriety. sometimes problems can be solved by getting fucked up. states change. that's what that recess acid trip taught me. the gravel turned to liquid. melting is a cliche when it's a word, but when it's the phasing of every photon into a state of mind-controlled malleability, it's authentic "outside the field" originality, the possibility of penicillin and paradigm shift, even if the reins are out of the child's hands, never giving a thought to the rocket-ride, the elasticity of unlearned, unschooled juvenihilism, the sacred damnation of extreme innocence, momentum of the unconscious, archetypes fragmented into falling tetris blocks, shards i drop with energy warrior efficiency into perfect stalactite placement on the commodore. they're calling it retro, but it post-dates jung by decades.