This little piggy...

A woman is more convinced by what she guesses, than by what she is told.  He remembered this only after he had told her everything.

In my youth I had more than ample opportunity to attend county fairs, and rodeos.  This was simply part of life in Wyoming.  A reality I grew up with....I grew up in.  It is no longer a part of the reality I exist in, but the memories remain.  These events are fraught with the most entertaining combination of child and animal abuse. The mutton busters were great.  Little kids in football helmets on sheep.  Always a good time.  My favorite though was the greased pig chase.  This is, well...exactly what it sounds like.  Some asshole would grease up a pig, scare the shit out of it, then turn it loose while a bunch of kids tried to catch it, all while drunk parents stood outside the gates screaming, "Come on Dusty,  go on catch that sumbitch", and sipping on Pabst signature Blue Ribbon from a plastic cup.

I don't really remember if anyone ever caught the pig.  Probably.  I don't remember what the prize was if they did.  Hell, maybe they got to keep it.  Take it to the butcher and fill the freezer.  I don't really know.  I do remember kids falling down a lot.  Getting bloody. Trampled. Crying.  Cheering. Tons of laughs to be had all around.

Maybe there's a god above, 
but all I ever learned from love
was how to shoot somebody
who outdrew ya.

I would watch and laugh with the rest of the folk dressed in their farmland finest. I would eavesdrop the conversations about the weather, and the coming harvest, and the local gossip.  Wanting nothing more than escape.  Wanting to be the angel staggering on tenament roof.  Wanting to rage against the dying light.  Wanting to be that mind, starving, hysterical and naked, destroyed by madness.  Not knowing then that the madness was in the wanting.

And I often felt like that pig.  Scampering.  Running.  All these strange hands reaching for me, to catch me. To control me.  Fuck I dunno...take me to the butcher and fill their freezer.

I still feel that way sometimes.

He watched her. She knew he was watching, but he wondered if she was aware the scrutiny.  He needed...so much he needed a way to let go of her. She had caught him. She knew.  And she knew that when she had, he immediately became uninteresting.
He knew this also, and was desperately attempting every method to escape the snare of her.

And now I share this rock with so many strangers, and have discovered that although we call it by so many different names, it's all just chasing greased pigs.  And there is trampling, and crying, and blood, and laughter, and some drunk asshole cheering us along.  What seemed novelty at the time, is now so much background distraction, on a much grander scale.

Visions. Omens. Hallucinations. Miracles. Ecstasies, Gone down the American river, but this time without exclamation.  Because we've taken this trip so many times, and now when I rage against that dying light, the guy in the window above me, tells me to get a grip, shut the fuck up, and quit thinking I'm special.  The tenament rooftop dance has ended, and my card is empty.

He made every attempt to lose his attraction.  He watched her through worlds eyes, and noted everything this existence defines flaw.  He made her voice nails in his head.  He painted her gray, and erased her from his desire.  He took from her the power she'd given him.  He knew she'd never miss it. He let it fly on the wish of other things, and closed the night alone.  Knowing the flavor of that false kiss. He left the night reborn.

One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.  So said once a madman, and I hope he did.  I hope I will.

A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved going the opposite direction in this too big world.  So said once the same madman, and I still hope he found the words.  I need him to have found the words, because if he did, that means they exist, and maybe I will too.  But then again...he was a madman.

We're all mad here.  So said once a mad cat.

The pig used to squeal a motherfucker.  I might too if being chased by a multitude of strangers intent on my capture. Like that pig, I have no where to go, but I have to keep running, because the alternative is not running, and not running means I may just end up in someone's freezer.  Or my own freezer.  This world is too big.  There is too much.  I will miss all of the good stuff, but goddammit if I am not intent on not missing the good stuff.  I will see the things I want, and do the things I do, and live in abject poverty, and abstract delight.  I will watch.  I will listen.  I will jest, and my god will I laugh, and my god will I lie.  I will give you the exact fiction of me that I want you to have.  And I will keep myself for myself.  This is far more fun.

Every day he remembers her.  And her.  And her.  And her.  Every day he feels the name of her scratch the blood in him, and he thanks her.  Every day he remembers the little things.  Everyday he plants a new seed somewhere else, that will not be her, or her, or her, in hopes that the future forrest provides the shade that will hide him from her, and her and her.  He walks the days a vision of calm, while the fire inside comsumes the hope he had of her.  And her.  And her.

There are so many stories to tell.  So many little treasures to hide in plain sight.  There is in each fucking moment, of each fucking day, a new flame to fan, and fire to build.  There are worlds to build.  I'm currently building three, and it is slow, but my christ is it rewarding.  I watch these people who don't exist anywhere but inside my mind shape new words, and new pain.  Tell new secrets to old friends, and I can't do this...I couldn't do this...

If I wasn't like that goddamn pig.  I have to run.  I have to squeal.  I have to find my way away from hands that would trap me down, and fill their freezer.  I have to turn over the rocks that everyone else walks on, so I can see the bugs underneath....also running and squealing to keep away from my hands.  I have to write on this page....all the things that don't make sense...so I can write on other pages the things that do.  I have to let the words happen.  My brain cup runneth over.  My heart cup is empty.

And now I will put this one to rest, so that I may move on to another.  I'll stop chasing the little pig in my head.  In another place up in that dusty attic, are four campers who probably don't like each other as much as they tell each other they do.  Or...maybe they like each other more.  I don't know yet.

In another place in my brain in a man in a bathtub, who can't see the woman who is also in the bathtub.  Or maybe he can only see her when she is.  I don't know yet.

In yet another gray cavity is a woman mourning the loss of her husband.  He recently died, and left behind something she's discovered, that he never got the chance to explain.  It's all very tragic.  The things we don't say to each other, and the moment we realize we'll never be able to.  Really though...it probably doesn't matter....

It all ends in tears anyway. - Jack Kerouac