Stars, Crutches, Wishes, Wiles: A Blind Man Bitches and a Deaf Man Smiles.

The stars, before me, clouded forth, south and north. The stars, before me, east and west, winked and asked what I loved best. “Hope,” I replied. The stars, before me, north and south, asked what’s in my mouth. “Clouds,” I subscribed.

That last bit was written in a flood of alcohol and I still don’t know where I was going with the train of thought, but I like it, despite its poor repetition and restless vagueness. I plant it here as I figure ‘Where the hell else should it go?’

Grab you a reference point for Gods’ sake and hold on to it. This could get messy.

Picture a man; a man marveling at how he, a twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one year old, can see this looming horizon of thirty-eight cresting the rightness and detritus of his past. Add to him those basic fears of living, autumnal and tide-like, now high, now neap, worrying itself with the phases of the moon, waxing, waning, swell, and subside.

Closing your eyes and drifting past that reddish-pink haze of photons bleeding through the capillaries there’s that darkness creeping in, both warm and malevolent. It’s got this mothering feel, this darkness, because for all its comfort, you know that nothing can hurt you quite as much. And playing that childish game of pressing your palms against your eyes allows that total dark a toe-hold in your brain, but then brings those enigmatic flashes of brilliance popping in and out of existence. Like ball lightening exploding from unseen forces, those patches of white, of mini-supernovae are made of nothing but you. Like an empty page, a canvas, these flashes are so purely white in my game that they carry this idealism of amnesia, but, oddly enough, frighteningly enough, only because they carry the threat of remembering everything. Maybe these are the fatherly counterpart to my motherly darkness. Maybe I’m just pissing in the wind on some fragmented imagery in my head. All the same, here we are.

As a child my father had two imaginary friends, Spluttergut and Farthead. As I remember, he told me that Farthead wasn’t that good of a friend; kind of an asshole, in fact. I love that. Imaginary friends need not always be good friends.

I recall only one imaginary friend in my youth; an interstellar turtle, tortoise, to be exact, who travelled everywhere and, as best I can remember, never had a name; he simply had no need of one. He wasn’t always there. Like my father later in our lives, he travelled a lot on his duties that I never fully understood. I begrudged him (nor my father) not one whit of it. My tortoise and I never really talked, I just sort of experienced him; while outside of me, my tortoise was still of me. My current love of dichotomy, you might imagine, latches onto this like a remora.

What brings this dear old friend back to life in this already degrading and spiraling, free-fall of letters is that I could actually see my imaginary friend. By locking my eyes as far to the edge of my vision as physically possible an amorphous shimmer would appear and my youthful mind saw the out-make of a shell with its details humbled and blurred, like looking into the sun. And none of this reflected, refracted, second-hand used light that we’re so used to. No, my tortoise was of his own light, pure and undimmed by all those colors and perceptions that swallow photons like Pez from the toy-like dispenser of the universe.

And David Bowman exclaims, “My God, it’s full of stars!”

Stars. My best friend is a newly-pressed watcher (and, as we’re of the persuasion that one is not only capable, but inherently responsible for actually choosing their own family, we’re brothers; I, therefore find myself with a sister-in-law and a beautiful niece with which I confess to a love like no other I’ve ever known); but, stars…

My narrow ass shivering in the cold on the celebration of his birthday, he pointed skyward. “See that triangle there?” at which he designated Cassiopeia. “Andromeda’s mother,” I said, to prove that I’ve still got something on the ball. He continued on with only a slight recognition to my statement that made me love him all the more while tracing a line from those ethereal discs so far from us, their triangular form designating an arrow to M31. “That flickering red light right there is a galaxy. A galaxy. I nearly pissed myself when I understood what I was seeing.”

Indeed, so did I; four hundred billion stars two and half million light years away from us.

Let that one sink and settle on you a bit.

It would seem that it takes an infinite amount of energy to move a physical particle to the speed of light and, by the theory of relativity, a photon of light, if given the blessed and cursed ability of awareness, would experience the entire universe as one complete moment; a lifetime of a now. (The idea being that everything has a constant speed divided between time and space {if we can allow the differentiation between the two} and that as we move slower through space we move faster through time; therefore, moving faster through space means moving slower through time.)

Let that one sink and settle on you a bit. Are we all still digging?

“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past,” said Mr. Faulkner. I love that one. Those stars that we’re seeing, many a gazer will tell you, again and again, aren’t the stars that are there right now. The past is not only inescapable, it’s still right here, loitering, filling in spaces we’re not used to seeing. The twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one year old in my head and body know this. They exclaim it constantly as that mast of thirty-eight appears over the vast open sea of a horizon that my mind insists exists, as the only perception it’s got of the future is wide, expansive, unset, and alien. It needs this to be so in its middle aging fears of loving too much and too little simultaneously. I’m far too kind to even try to take away that image. We do need this, he and I. Comfort matters as we coalesce into ages as yet not experienced.

Why stars got the forefront here, I’m not sure, but I trust my head, dizzy bitch that it may be. My desire, my itch and twitch on this missive, is to say that, while I play, all too often, the meek; that, while I’m prone to consider anyone’s beef with me as meritorious, as having a basis in truth, it’s merely a value I have on the deniability of shared realities.

The recency of wrongs presented to me have their merit, but, as always and ever (contrary to popular belief, we mortals do experience infinity; it’s just much shorter than the mathematics imply), I now doubt their merit towards my placating and peace-keeping approach. This body and this mind, with their nearly thirty-eight year old mastheads, keep the hull of the eighteen year old ship (which still occasionally laughs at storms and presses head on, believe it or not). In another bout of what I-should-have-said idealism I contend now that wrongs to and wrongs meant are vastly different tides (neap and high again, my friends). My kindnesses extend far enough to not tell someone to go fuck themselves for whatever. But, you know what? Some people are absolutely in need of and completely, massively, and utterly deserving of hard-driving, unrelenting self-fuckdom. Lest you think I play the Saint, I know crow; it’s greasy and tastes of less-than. Bad meals are the bastion of fine dining, remember. Cancel them at your own risk.

My love too much bit comes with the unforgiving expectation that my allowance that your view is as right as mine costs you the same. The same, I repeat in supposed futility. My love too little bit comes in when you don’t allow me that possibility. Crossing that line simply paints your views out of my starry sky, but cutting off the ear does not kill the sound. Ah, that universal web’s a bitch. “Deal with me,” she screams, regardless of the circumstance. Middle-aged fears know this. Youthful exuberance abhors this. Vacuums be damned.

In the general rules of wishing, a galaxy should be a veritable catalyst and magnifier of said wishing. Looking on that galaxy, a twelve year old me said a too adult prayer of: dear universe, please fuck those that fuck unto me and allow me those words when I need them. My shame at that is currently far too mild for my general tastes of self-worth. I’ll rue that one better a little later. Maybe.

Too much of foul and not enough of fair lists me too far left towards the briny deep in manners that make me fearful for my soul. To be fair and, in my nature, drift from one point to another unrelated, I later wondered if, upon kissing the back of her neck (which I never saw, only imagined, as I’m wont to do), beneath blond whirls of small curls of the very metaphors of golden stars in themselves, that I might taste the salty essence of her; while she marveled in the quickness of those years and slowness of that space that should bring us back to a simple moment so many years hence. You may well know me, dear friends, and are well aware that such a joke of hopefulness such as I cannot escape such thoughts while he wanders between the soundtrack of Andy Stott and the fearfully novaed controlled cacophony of Sonic Youth. I count it among my myriad small blessings.

Fault me all you like; but, it really is full of stars. A tortoise told me so many years ago.

For now, I leave you with structure and a piece of what I find beautiful:

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