October 21st, a dense overgrowth slows down catalysts of possibility into detached car tires, worlds unto themselves that also pile on top of landscapes. The tires suggest wheels of movement, so something is moving—the seed of motion is there, as is an awareness of journeys & openings of worlds.
But languorous couch potatoes are we, spreading out on the futons, spinning inert on a cosmic hamster wheel of body sensations—pain, sting, gasp, blur, & blister pop! The factories producing eternal junk food, the cheesy squeeze and the old fashioned candies that preserve the longing for roots & sameness, keep us within the pandemonium of sensation. The very air we breathe feels pebbled, sandy, with the faint odor of a goblin-run bank only providing the illusion of money’s safety.
If we could see the repairman with all the warts working on the tires, the tired wheel of life and fortune, we’d see that each tire itself contains a multitude of worlds when we stop to examine every groove. This not only, but those dark wheels cover a vast swath of prehistoric land, seeding the raw material of our journeys by paving the earth with the suggestion of movement.
The only thing fastening us to inertia is our thirst, mistaken as a craving for artificial sweetener. “Hydrate!” the repairman says, spraying water all over our chapped skin, laughing into the day’s soil. “Dance partners with the rocky ridges, reveal yourselves!”