in search of perfection

Michelangelo strapped to the ceiling destroying his body for the sake of God and echoing for a thousand years with the fire he feels torched and surrounded by today

(7/24/22) it is always Now, was Now back then, time is more a frequency, a lake, a heritage, an awareness, an ethos, a style of dance with known and knowable rules broken by outsiders who want to get in; so you pledge death (mortgage means ‘death pledge’ at its root) to join the ranks of ancestors who played by known rules; you learn everything there is about the past, styles; you go to the gym, you orient your life around the demands of perfection, then you’re on panels, it’s simply agreed upon and foregone that you’d be the one to judge and educate those lesser, those on fire who aren’t experienced or grizzled or exhausted or sagacious like You. I became that You; now I write books wondering about what the You is and what the distance really is between I and Thou; another hungry mystery with nothing that original at the center, a lust for communion

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perfection would entail living off your fans, so your effort somehow generates returns for them (help them make money and solve the problem; i will Only solve my problem by solving Their problem; i spend my life sketching the battlefield never solving the problem, yet i am getting better and keep doing the best work i am capable of even if it isn’t called work by my family, arbitrary observers, not true fans of the work, cockeyed watching as i continue doing the thing that didn’t work, hasn’t worked and might never work. And yet here it keeps going; is it delusion? If so, it’s at least well-oiled and in perfect order, fully operational and high-speed

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this late-night text block will be imperfect
but might be something to conduct your life through

reading is rare — it’s a rare occasion that you’re still awake
and if you are, the “attention economy” is a tough act;
you have so many places to go with maybe your last attention ever

i came here to say something about love, calculation, night, old youth,
getting older, feeling, thinking, observing myself and trying to connect with someone (maybe…you’re there, but I’m fine here ~ we’re good asynchronous, apart, each individual…love is a word that means something different to everyone ~ it’s a nexus around which disappointed expectations and question marks gather

this is how I babysit mine: writing my thoughts and putting them on the internet, you are out there and I am here where I am. Even at my age I am bemused by the simultaneity of you and me. Every moment it’s new and worth…what? Saying something more about? I’m Mr. Silence.

God, it makes sense why you wouldn’t read this. I could just go find clients to work on, earn money ~ enough money to afford a personal life.

I wonder how I will look back on how I spent my time.

Of course, I watch my mind because no one else is here.