It’s a Merry-go-Round, with its ups and its down, its whimsical carriages and its rearing unicorns. It’s a song that I can’t get out of my head, round and round like the blackest pressed vinyl. It’s the bluest vortices that I tumble into; it’s the mania of the most angelic white updraft. It is whirling: One hand up in the air, the other pointed to the shag carpet, whirling, whirling, clapping my hands, whirling, Lola Falana; clapping and whirling, Bee Gees, Elton John, Beatles, and the whole wonderful whirling symphony. It is a corkscrew of an idea, burrowing into my brain that’s embedded some twelve odd years now. It is the wound from the dog that bites me, the dogs that orbit me still. It’s a tear in my pocket, where I lost my marbles and my mad money. When my memory fades it recedes around lacunae. Myself as one strange Mobius loop of possibilities and negations; a spine of ruin discs and strengthened story. Chains broken, mended. The Synoptic gospels are full of them, as is the apocryphal library. Sometimes I find myself staring off into space only to realize suddenly that suddenly has been a long, long time in coming ‘round, and all about me, encircling me, the world wobbles as if in the presence of some invisible body turning day to night, womb to tomb, everywhere, all I see are circles.
“The kingdom is within said the book of holes,” I wrote in my journal yesterday. “And the kingdom resounds like echoing – I am because you are, my isness is your isness.”