There’s the strange side we were on— the ones
who most mean it about high art— in earnest, of
course, about form & content on high levels. Then,
the side which accrues to & against that side, about
pedestrian reality, paying bills. Then the side which
attempts to mediate these realities, day by day,
out of which other sides emerge, escape valve sides,
wanting to get drunk & high. And so on. The strange
side means a strange life of partial or total alienation,
surfaces found insulting. The recompense for Mary
& I— our nudity to each other was strange nudity.
On the strange side, how much interpenetration
could be possible between two human beings, as
something worth investigating, could land us on
alien terrain, so that at 3 am, in a fit of blended
love & lust, being inside her could be participation
in the space-innards of the Milky Way, language
expanding from images, vice versa, simple white
sheets ample space for stars to be born, live entire
lives, & die on, as though our bodies scooped up
primordial ooze to allow the universe to be born
from them again. Now, I sit in a diner on Fayette Street,
still on the strange side, & take from pedestrian
reality what I can take, sort of alienated on sort of
alien terrain, sort of drunk & high, & nothing has
to end, sort of. I still mean it about high art. No
sort of there. I think of Mary then, love still blends
with lust. Stars live & die all over again. Strange.
© Adam Fieled 2026
No comments:
Post a Comment