Member-only story
Self
Prose
Turn around and see yourself self, twirl, sight, whirl again and face you: Your twenties when life was forever, thirties threw you under the bus but in the end defended you. Forties will show physical (not how you see or how you feel, you still think you’re twenty). Fifties to nineties keeps the dream alive. What do roster decades even mean? Life jugs the price to pay — natural skip-alongs as if we knew better — no time to play games. Is your hair on fire?
We think of this as time but it’s not, it’s passage. A scene to live in and breathe. Here we make, fool around, fuck up, archive the universal. Love like rabbits — enjoy the show. We demonstrate forever but we’re not. We are feathers flocked on this planet, the push and pull of our heat and cold turns the axis as this big world spins.
Can’t put a game to it, the rules are too elemental. As babies everyone follows suite but ones that push back and stand as lions commit to the go around call of truth. The wind sock picks up catching what we want.
Getting is craft. That learned thing and the other one we do as humans, no craft required; fall for something, someone and go through the black hole of love, bliss, hope, and heartbreak always on the table.
The gist.
Michael Stang 2021
