Secret Pop

Dec 16, 2002

There to Here in No Time Flat

I drove fast tonight. I could hear the whoosh I was making as I sped past other motorists, entities who became little more than a color of paint and a pair of headlights to me in the aftermath. I was in a hurry. And I established a fast pace to begin with. But moreso, I was looking forward to being able to come to a stop. And I remembered the release of coming home. And it was alluring. I covered the 175 miles or so in about 1:45. It's positively criminal. But I am teaching myself not to be sorry.

For the record,
this was me
in gig mode.
In the days
that followed,
I dressed in black
and played until
my fingers bled.
When I go,
I go full tilt.

It's late, and I'm aware of it. I feel that omnipresent ache of overdoing it. It's the sensation I have often relied upon to remind me that I'm here and up to things. Like the satisfaction of sore muscles after a good, long run.

I have begun to feel a bland disinterest come over me when people express wonder at how much I do and how little sleep I take and how hard I push and blah di blah di blah. I am impatient these days. And less than anxious to inspire awe purely on the basis of how efficiently my motor runs. It doesn't really. I waste plenty. I waste a great deal. Like there was profit in it. I waste flagranty. I waste away at times. It's all part of the process.

One day, I will smile, knowing that I have inspired something legitimate. Knowing that someone I know is proud to show me off or to parade my work around in front of the crew at the office. It will mean something more to me to be admired for something that exists outside of my personal chemistry. I want to be remembered -- and possibly applauded -- for the right things. And there are certain memories -- and their bearers -- that mean more to me than others. I want it to mean something when someone points to me and says, "Isn't she something?" I want the triumph of it.

I also realize that I am growing to despise approval in the same way that an addict despises her fix. The way she rails against the satiation the evil substance delivers. I don't want to care what anyone else thinks anymore. But that is a goal that bobs on the horizon. A bit of flotsam, lingering along the edge of the ocean, just before it drops away against the curve of space. I can reach for it. And I am made for reaching. But I am using a spyglass and things are so much farther off than I can measure. Whatever my vision may tell me. My fingertips might just as easily caress the edge of the sun.

When I drive fast, I sing at the top of my lungs.

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