1994 journal entry

i could have stayed in that small town, it would not have made any difference. i could relocate to a new province, searching, expanding my horizons in the quest for healthy mind, kind words, gentle hands that allow me to open doors my friend by my side, standing together against the tide of critical hypocrisy, making love with tears in our eyes, gentle hands banishing. i’ve been weaving spells into my hair it seems for so long my dreams are losing their meaning i think a change of scene is needed. sometimes i ask myself, how much longer do i need to be on this planet, great revelations come and go while i still hope for the next best thing to come along and i know that i do not know; life is a tediously wonderful series of paradoxes. miracles are a matter of routine in the third world; here am i, still alone, waiting for gentle hands, the healthy mind, teatime in the 4th dimension.

i’ve been watching the atoms fall like rain through the trees, through my trailer, through my window, and i wonder about gravity – a serious commitment. seeking a core, a parallel universe in the centre of the earth, the secret is that close. the revolution in my back yard takes precedence over a social life. who needs a social life when so many lovers are knocking at my subconscious every night i am dizzy from their demands the lovers do not have gentle hands. we learn our lessons and we carry on. in my dreams i am a ninja, dancing with death a butterfly on my shoulder armed to the teeth i dance in defence of gentle hands that touch my mind, atoms falling through. i mock myself with a happy face like making fun of you like breaking masks the goddess of destruction wears an infinite smile correct me if i am wrong.

i might stay up all night long talking to myself, waiting for the strange sunrise while moonlight fades from my eyes, tired only of the cruelty in my life. if only i could throw this pot of piss at the hateful people and be done, forgive. my speculations are as useful as a pocketful of superstition, worthless. cruelty is the critical mind. paradox is the cat’s cradle, beginning and ending as nothing, becoming as i speculate, weaving spells with an infinite smile, weaving words for your pleasure, titillating intellect, talking to myself all night long do not take it personally it is a game i play well.

i think of the things i do with my two hands, the things i don’t do, why. things i don’t do but could, could but don’t, why. i don’t want to be touched by people, with their cruel selfish intentions. i touch earth, fire, sky, water, and i don’t think about it often. what goes on in my mind is mirrored in what i do with my hands. i see what other people do with their hands, and i cover my eyes.

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