in the realm of the unreal

so, just quickly
i’ve been in LA for a day and a half now
i’m slowly working on healing myself
it’s a full moon
and i’m still tired…
eating kefir and yogurt and cereal
… and a burrito
sans rice
staying with a man of LA
we talk about illusions
living in them
making them
foresaking them
gotta respect them
gotta love em
gotta be devoured by them?
we sleep a lot
the house is decorated
this town…
he tells me about this movie he wants to go see
“in the realm of the unreal”
so we go to see it
it mixes with all my stories
the simple telling of living in the midwest
his lonely life
his struggle against being so outcast
his endurance through the dail torture of living there…
then
in that
story
it’s all anagalous to what i grew up in
and the tears were rolling down my face
tom waits turning into a monkey grinder for the dreaming innocents
and we’re all doing the best we can
it’s not as much
me speaking in a bad british accent and faking stories of my childhood in cornwall
he wrote over 30,000 pages
oh, half of that was The story he created to live in
the other was the weather
but there were tons of paintings… collages…
insane, yes…
but a place to run to
and just like in dreams
it wasn’t all paradise
his fantasy land was filled with wars and toture and blood shed
and such innocent mistakes:
having never seen a woman naked before
he portrayed all the nude girls with penises
and even himself… he often portrayed as a little girl.
lonely
make an entire world
and who to share it with?
and the world we share?
such torture
such fear
why be in love?
to create a reality together
one that blossoms and expands and fills the world with love…
well, isn’t that nobel?
when my heart is broken open
i call someone i love
lost in the detrius of that life, his life, this life
he’s not there
but he was there a few nights ago
and he told me a story
i think it fits this context:
”
my great uncle lived in a house boat down in Miami…
except his house boat was in an empty lot miles from the beach
on blocks.
he bought old cars and drove them into the ground
and then he would park them in the lot
and make closets and filing cabinets out of them
he kept everything…
even intellectually
he would write a log of Everything he did that day…
including writing in the log
“… and then i came here to write this down”
he’s my mother’s mother’s brother.
and i’ve always aspired to a life like that…
”
a life of obsession
to the point of satisfactorily occupying reality
a castle
as bastion
hmmm
if only we could have someone with us inside there…
but maybe love makes all of that totally unneccessary
when you can look in your friend’s eye
that gleam…
doesn’t it just make you laught?