often times, even though i start off listening to irma thomas and go through the whole spectrum of albums on my record shelf, i always end up on the 13th floor elevators. it is true about sound and color and the beast in mind. how the world can truly fall away when something beautiful comes along. it is no good to be too direct about the life of mind when the life of body is still finding the way home, but, i will say, that it is probably far more difficult to get home if the mind is too high strung about getting there. often being too aggressive makes one too ignorant to find the path. an easier way to say this would probably be to venture off into the world of blindness and all that static sound. but that is not really what i mean here. mostly i mean that mostly no one gets better when mostly anger is in the heart. most people cannot listen beyond that dull black pounding in the skull, the way it singes the shoulders and makes the mouth all wrong.
it is those parts and those moments that make me just want to fall back into the space of my own mind and body, my own glass rooms of beauty and art, and ignore the parts and the people. i know i always write that out and i know this is no rough and tumble way to be, but i keep thinking about the span of a story the span of the earth and the small space of time i get to stand with my feet on the ground. these spaces and times are minute in comparison to the expanse of time and history and life around us. and knowing the natural world and being a part of its art and beauty means more to me. i suppose the reason this is not about blindness is because i am really writing about the inverse. i am really writing about communication. in the life of mind and body and spirit conversation is the only means i see of getting home. and i cannot think of anything more frustrating and more daunting than being unable to connect. maybe that is all this is. maybe that is all any of this really is.