the Prelude to Parsifal makes me believe in magic

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy,
our life, our sweetness and our hope.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve;
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.

Turn then, most gracious advocate,
thine eyes of mercy toward us;
and after this our exile,
show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.


banksy

i find myself lying here late at night, listening to Part's arrangement of the Salve Regina; it is the third night in a row. Having nothing to write about, struggling for ideas, being too frightened to 'open-up' here (for what reason I do not know), I will pass the time by compiling aimless lists.


THINGS I HAVE DONE IN THE BACKSEATS OF CARS: A LIST

- In hindsight, I must have been tiny, though no less than 13 years of age. I had turned myself around in the backseat- head dangling, feet up in the air, the back windshield massive as the nightsky itself. I stared out. My dad drove too fast, no doubt restless, now our fourth hour on the road; made no difference. Soo many moons I couldn't spot a star from an angel blowing me a kiss. Bach was blasting, the Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Somehow, it seemed the organ had brought them all to life- souls and cherubims and fairies and fireflies all being drawn out from darkless, fingertipless worlds. My dad took a chicane quickly, and I was certain I saw a beam- once a lost-prophet with a staff and a patient beard, now encapsulated (staff, herd, faith and all) into a ball of light soo far away it took innocent youth, pipe-organ, and the speed of sound to awaken him into a dim glow. The trees nodded as we passed. The wind followed the echo. The breast of night met us, and took us, and showed us where she hid her fantasies.

(my soul had a sexless orgasm at the last chords, and the next morning i was a new teenage-man)

*__*__*

it had been a stupid idea. let's go to the drive-ins! __yes... but we're... like 18. ___so? ___so... it kinda stops being fun after a while. ____ no it doesn't!, it'll be fun! ___fine, whatever, you guys wanna go- let's go. How many of us are there? ___8. We lost one car along the way, we couldn't find the entrance, and they got bored. Two of their members came into our 5-full station wagon (now 7-full). We found the drive in. Laughed and giggled and cleavaged our way into admission (the car being clearly too-full). My neck contorted, my lungs not yet knew how to breathe carbon-dioxide (a feat I'd only achieve 6 years later). In the back seat all squashed together, I felt a strange sexuality to it... too many bodies unnaturally close. The femininity of youth startling me, so close already I was tempted to rub my lips against whatever skin lay nearest me. Someone turned, a pillow landed in my face. I moved it behind my neck (which would tomorrow be sore). Now, again, my lips to bare skin (I think it was a shoulder, or the back of an arm, a tricep).

youth is its own torture.

*__*__*

"it hasn't kicked in for me"
"yes it has."
"no it hasn't"
"it has"
"how do you know?"
"kiss me"
[kissing]
"see?"
"[panting] no."
[more kissing]
"look at your eyes"
[adjusts rear view mirror]
"oh_my_god"

(open mouthed, wide eyed, dry-lipped, we kissed and were each other's water, company, and hand-holding machine.)
(open mouth, dilated eyes, happy(iest) hearted (i've ever been) we skipped the dance. in a dark alleyway we kissed and held-hands, and i made words dance as i whispered them in your ear)
(open mouthed, still too young to know i was young, i should have wrapped you up, stepped out onto some grass, and dug my feet as roots deep under... made tree of us both. saved us both from now)

*__*__*

there is too much yelling.
stab-motion noises. i am not involved, but my heart speeds up anyway.
i cannot breathe, the window is up.
i cannot ask for it to be lowered.
i sit, stare out the window,
wait to catchup with the me i'm supposed to be... (and where i'm supposed to be)

____(and still wait

*__*__*

i was told recently: i am a man.boy of my generation. i am not sure what that really means- which perhaps must be a sign of what my generation is about. i cannot think of any single goal i have striven for assiduously, except to be human; a task which i imagine myself mostly having failed (and failing now), and since i will inevitably die- it is certain i will fail in the future.

and so if i am a man of my generation, my generation is that of confusion... and of strivings that are not completely understood. I find myself always between love, time, place, and the history of love, time, or place (and never anywhere) (and most of the time, any real where will do just fine)

*__*__*

it was not uncommon to call you. You're who i rang at the end of the night, if i had not (and you had not) found a replacement panacea.

"oh really?... wow, you're into this for once, what's happened?"
"[xyz and i broke up and i'm broken hearted and i don't know why i'm here]"
"hey- say something."
"nothing... nothing, just feeling it."
"you sure nothing's wrong?"
"no."
"[smile] ok, let's have some fun"

(
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
)
____Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot

*__*__*

dear this-generation,

i haven't a clue about you. nor i gather, you about i.

hi.
what do you want?

best regards,
senseless organic-macromolecules being controlled by semi-arbitrary electrical impulses being fired at near-random by a fatty-tissue blob of grey jigglies.

*__*__*

(to thee do we send our sighs)
(to thee do we send our sighs)
(to thee do we send our sighs)
(to thee do we send our sighs)

*__*__*

and:
___the Prelude to Parsifal makes me believe in magic

(so i guess i'll let myself be woken up tomorrow.

*__*__*

(And let my cry come unto Thee.)