It's 00.12 and my eyes are sore tonight. I'm burning this New York Dolls cd and I've just finished watching the film "Tarnation". I am moved, crumpled, feeling and open. I wanted to write, though I don't know what to say and my shoulders ache. I wanted to write because Jonathan Caouette made "Tarnation" partly for his mother, who fell from a roof when she was twelve years old, and her parents sent her for electric shock treatment because they thought it would make her better. As a result, she was in and out of mental institutions all her life, and eventually suffered brain damage as a result of lithium poisoning. He made the film for $218. Such an honest, powerful film. It also reminded me of my own mother, who too had electric shock treatment,and in fact was given LSD as part of some radical treatment for mental health, which gave her the horrors for days on end, and from which I don't think she ever recovered. In the film, Caouette says at the end how he fears ending up like his mother, and how much he loves her.
     We all want to escape the cycles we find ourselves trapped in. And seek out ways of coming to terms. Now I don't seriously want heroin, but I want a way of reaching the truth of what stained me before I was even walking, and the sky light, cutting through the broken planks of a playhouse wall. I want to reach the other side of a dream i am not reaching, can never reach, only touch to pull away, feel the sense of, turn and curl back upon myself in sleeping and waking. It all turns to gold anyway, and in the midst of living, we are aging, and love will always follow, whether crouching or standing tall. And I'll be a poet before the night is out. And you will be formless as soon as your fences fall down. I will come upon you, light your feeble brow, cradle you in a blue nothing, stars will falter along our tides and ships whinny to the night. But you are a brave one, a strange song, limpet fantastic and bright. We exist through days, no one ever thought it would be this way, and the aeroplane comes down as the clouds are rising, the mother turns with a smile on her face. A man crosses a road like lightening on frail buildings, and we have all lost the race, upset grace, we have all lost the race. Winning proved too easy, feet got tangled up in white laces and grass like on a summer's day, except it wasn't summer, my laces were tied, and I am in this empty field and no longer young...
...hear then...form is no other than emptiness, emptiness no other than form..worship.. degradation.. sunshine.. cold saturn.. winds.. weathered..song.. hearing.. looking.. looking.. turn around.. blink again..blink again.. we're gone..