Sifting Through Shadows
I sit in the shadow of a mountain, locked in on an island of urban renewal and corporate hunger. I wander amongst rising condominiums and single story low income housing, up green belts by man-made lakes, down side streets that dead-end to alleys, river bottoms and freeways. Through this all, my mind churns and the fires burn no matter how much I try and stop it. I pause for a moment, furrow my brows and give Rodin�s Thinker a run for it�s money as the intensity of my thoughts are distinctly defined upon my features.
And I think, I ponder, I let my thoughts poor out in a flood and they fill the air around me. I start and I stop and just when I think I forgot to start again, it seems I�ve been started all along and never stopped in the first place.
At one point, not so long ago, it seemed a good idea to placate the screaming in my head by drowning it under a deluge. But the words and the ideas and the self-doubting, the fear, the hatred and the disappointment could never be drowned out so, only made less coherent, unfocused and confusing to the point of being nothing but an unorganized roar.
I have realized that the shiny cans, gleaming pipes and rainbow colored bottles are tools to be used and not the cure all that commercials and first hand recollections advertise them to be. Over indulgence is only good in moderation, which is not an oxymoron, I assure you. It perturbs me to no end that I keep growing, learning and changing, even as I angle towards being a �30 something classification�.
Here I wander and here I stumble, in the shadow of the mountain I call home. I chronicle those that pass through this way station, this valley of change, I meet them and greet them, capture details and show them all things I can see through my eyes. I change lives (if only just a little) and do what I can to nurture, encourage and urge the Phoenix that everyone has inside them to rise up from the ashes of this sun drenched nesting ground and send them off with beating wings and a swirl of ash, with nothing but memories of this desert paradise. Often I see them, live part of their lives with them and always saddened when they are gone.
I suppose having great tales of debauchery in the desert and chronicling slices of lives for my own pleasure isn�t such a bad life. But for once it would be nice if someone would take this gatekeeper by the hand, show him the way and encourage him to spread his wings like those that have come before him. I meet people all the time and more are perpetually queuing on the horizon, my cup runnith over and I have collected enough souls to start my own personal perdition or hire St. Peter to tend my gate, my kingdom is full to the brim.
A horse, a horse my kingdom for a horse? Fuck all that shit, all I want is just one soul mate to share it all with; you can keep the horse.
So I here I sit in the shadow of the mountain, land locked in my suburban paradise, and I can�t remember the last time I felt this cold.
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