Under the sickness is permanent peace. Over the sickness is bliss, a form
of sarcasm, insecure light rays from the culture’s sunscape. Topping the bliss
is personal pain without surrender and spurts of momentary magic. Resolving
this triptych is to know resolution – to nurture the nausea below heaven and hell
where civilization is not unprecious fly-over country. A flock of starving refugees
is not an aspect of elation, powdered milk the sole existence in the cupboard.
They’re a churning gut where life is unseparated from the truth of feeling the truth,
five hundred vultures and only nineteen prey. Somewhere a hungry 8-year old
nephew is searching the confines for edible insects while an uncle is meditating
in rapture. The pure light of his ecstasy absorbs the capital needed to ignore
the primitive plastic picking at people packed in poverty like cheap storage units
stacked in split domestic oases. Awakening is a fruit cup where happy backflips
are advertisements for what is possible in the face of confusion – a false final arrival
at something euphoric, old leather and styrofoam in a landfill being sold as paradise.
Moving beyond this idealized glow is a worker’s creed. It’s brass tacks and bare
knuckles in a blizzard – an insurrection to topple the authority of joy, a revival
persuading parishioners to postpone palliative delight. Imagine a saint having a
breakdown in a gas station bathroom while doing something holy. Imagine there
are pigeons in the stalls and scrawled on the walls is a message he believes in
demanding he have a good time. Do you notice the rumbling stomach resting in
an arcane stillness? Do you notice a constant ache below an illusion of pure light?