rambling

In town – in transit to the Caribbean…

It’s late afternoon. The mechanical whirr of the fan drowns out the operatic traffic horns sounding from the street below. The thin curtains sway as the air breathes through the room. My skin feels numb as it sinks back down out of that elevated angelic electricity. It’s strange – the amalgamation of a foreign flesh with one’s own – it drives me out of that maddening almost-Kantian-hyper-objective-solipsism – the one driving my perception and inadvertently cataloguing everything inhaled by my senses. Walking on Cartesian crutches. It’s the closest comprehension of Zen I have ever achieved – me, ignorantly trapped in my childish glass house built on a foundation naïveté – the edifice left transparent only by my insatiable curiosity. It is here, at the convergence, that I melt away. It is here that my need to escape from my incurable symptoms of a lost diagnosis dissipates – it is here where my curse of a mechanistically metronomic torpor is conquered by the raucous cataclysm of a soul alive – of real breath – of pure joie de vivre. Jouissance.

Being at the farm for so long has removed some element of humanness from me. I constantly feel filthy and congested. The crimson rosette bug bites punctuating my pallid skin could map out hundreds of undiscovered constellations in an uncharted universe [fortunately – I have discovered an exuberantly skilled cartographer]. I feel dirtier post-shower than before it. I have arachnids for bedfellows and slugs dropping out of the muddy tap water as I’m washing dishes. Clothes never cease to smell like mildew – they become stiff and scratchy after they’ve been drying in the heavy tropical heat for days. The chickens are relentless in their cackling and, in any given week, I see far more cow pies than I do people.

I’ve never been happier.