Tuesday, December 11, 2007

RS: Staying Grounded

Ah, gravity. So cruel to keep our feet planted firmly on the ground.

How freeing to fly, flee. How precious to float above congested streets, foul seas, foes. How peaceful to soar.

How true Ms. Dickinson mused on life when she wrote:

We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.

The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be a king.

Perhaps that dreaded gravity is self-imposed. Not just to keep us earthly bound but Rapunzeled from our potential. Fear so safe, so savage. The earth to grip the body, the self to restrain the soul. Perhaps, heads out of clouds keep heads in proportion. Statures hinged keep minds from unhinging entirely.

But might we be ungrounded simply by believing it possible? A might more pleasant than suffering the ravages of a magnetic core.

How cruel that gravitational pull on appendages. Sloping back and penises like disposable turkey parts ridiculing erection, prolapsing jowls and hidden places, tits equatorially directed, testicles tea bagging into toilet water, asses ricocheting and recoiling, distended guts like herniated radials—belts unsteeled, dangerously low PSI. Endless insults. Tampon reprieve, consolation for some, I suppose.

Piss poor perspective, perhaps. Or simple convergence—Newtonian Law applied to high hopes.

That damned gravity. Weight of the world. Pressing. Pulling. To stand defiant is to defy nature. It is exhausting and ugly. Gravity urging toward the grave.

Getting old sucks. Sagging bites.

But in dreams I fly. Mind, body, and soul. At will. In wonder. Delighted. Free. And always beautiful.

To live in dreams. How I wish it were true. But as Mama says, "Why don't you wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one gets filled up first." Gravity is real. And so is a fistful of feces.

So, I listen to Mama and press on. But in shining moments, magical moments, with feet planted firmly on the ground, I soar—fuck those warping cubits.

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