| dewy decimal |
2003-05-21 - 4:34 p.m.
So the plan is, and has been this, I�m moving to the Big Apple. But first, on Sunday I�m going to visit. I haven�t been there in so long. I�m kind of scared. OK I�m fucking mortified. And thrilled!
Moving to NYC is my intricate desire. Lines, metro-ornaments, immortal-colors, sounds of efficiency, I have imagined them all. My workshop, where I obsess over my exodus, is planted in delirious nights, and the rock bottom. I am there every night and day, threading guesses and desires through each other like strands in an enormous, brilliant ball of twine. It spins impatiently in my head, kinetic excesses that force me into taking occasional naps. The ball tightens and unravels, messily spilling colors and sounds every which way. Some red on my lunch, a long sigh of mass transit at the crosswalk. A collective abstraction that I have written�my romance novel. I can�t see how I won�t be let down on this trip. This untouchable dream cannot possibly be realized, yet it cannot be deconstructed. I often imagine that I will not survive this dream. The child adopts its womb. ABORT! ABORT!
On Sunday I will crawl into my plane, tumbling through air over the pacific and across the North Americas where I will spill inside this unavoidable space that I have made for myself. There, I'll wait, cause I know it's gonna transform into the language that I will need to speak.
The crowded, hollowing language from which you can hear yourself singing from the center of the universe.