the ambit of armpit

[a repost here from 7 the 2 2008]

the mixture of 90º heat, chops of optical saltings, metro-chasm formations, and smears of possibility,
sizzles grissly-side-down meat into juicy salivatious statements. this sort of "cooking" tires me out, especially being that i'm not so much in shape for where the recipe takes me. see that pile of sad tires floundering on the corner over there with their no-tread foreheads? that's me after a cook. i should prepare more. but i've not acquired the foundation to do well at that on my own. i do what i can, mostly i react to what i feel. i live emotion not fact(knowledge?). i may not always feed my body the balanced meal it needs but i feed my intuition a balanced food consisting of ideas from any side that come into my influence. either outside influence or inside influence. "outside" meaning environmental or chance or another person, etc. and "inside" meaning my own devision, or awareness, or effort.
"feed" is a misleading word since i am not actively doing anything, i only follow inherent feelings and my collected intuition(experience).

suspending myself into just living, basic-level existence without so much purpose and intention, finds me a discarded box of slot-car track with enough parts to make a circle. the set has a sticker on it that reads 10 cents. the feeling of "it might not work" is not something that quite registers to me, stops me. and i have no flinch to germ or image. sometimes i leave the findings, sometimes not. no reason, no plan, only the rhyme calls the flow of the "piece," the piece of time i'm in. a piece that has no real end or beginning except for what we assign. and i get that slot-set home and clear out a spot which, in my usual environments (ultimately/eventually), is quite a disaster. i test the plug, assemble the lot, find my old slot-fiero and put it in place. i have that click in my teeth of anticipation; the air grows thick, the iris closes-in. i'm in a hazy vignette. a doll in a dollhouse room. everything is in miniature. a flea takes a seat next to me, sighs of my pause, and takes the switch from me. the circuit closes.

it is a matter of orbit: things that can be seen, a nondecayable circular path.
my eyes, cradled in orbit, connect me, deliver the endless bits and crumbs and platters and oceans and chonks of space and time and process and matter to me. too much- to me. it is overwhelming; a bit. tie it down. look away. batten down something.
but eventually and always, i am covered in sheets. flying with sheets. connected with sheets.

exponential process. mindless. mindfull. but dissipating, changing. the process is organic. and what i experience flows as it should. balance there.

at least there.