The Next Day

There are few things more poetic to me than the collective recall of a novel prior event. A gaggle of folks placing puzzle pieces of the previous evening, laughing with the pictures being formed, the holes left behind, the pieces I hide in my pocket, embarrassed at the data it provides. MY forms of this experience border the mundane, a vain LCD beer-goggle memory of flamboyant dancing, perhaps a smooch, free-flow rhymes of internal overclarity.

Catching the eye of a co-party goer, my pelvic preaching reaching for the brakes braces for impact passing competition, reducing the partition from attracting atoms, protons and pro-contraceptives, deceptive cadence, rhythmic steps towards a mutual goal. With blurry eye contact I contact her equally hazy eye contacts I impact my intact ego ergo I go gogo grass romping and floor stomping hashtag #YOLO. Self esteem repleted, cell phone number deleted, day by day proceeded unimpeded no repetition needed. I played it  professional, let the night get locked into internal scrap books and unspoken eye glances remembering the night previous.

When I see films of the fantastic, I brainstorm how protaganists woke up the next morning, how they looked at one another, how they felt a week later. Our ability to consciously and unconsciously gold pan the silt and stone of our experiences post-hoc float on the boat of our rules and regulations, our judgments of the situations past present future – and future intoxicated. I heard once that we are the only animals that get punished more than once for failure, because we can be embarrassed by it later.

Let your judgments devolve, consider their efficacy, the biological advantageosity, ask yourself if your actions would have helped your survival, or hinder it; let the good and bad be not good and bad but incurred better survival or taught you for the future. Don’t stew on negativity, simmer on success and boil and improvement. Strain the pain of your gambits and games, let the colander hold the pasta (pronounced like New Englander) accomplishments and let the scalding water of embarrassment pass through to the garbage disposal. Let your dreams steam, brainstorms cracking lightning, create and ameliorate flow what you know and let yourself be great, let/ go of your imbalances at the graffiti covered overpasses/ don’t wait  /greet the /semi/ at the inner yellow dotted middle of the interstate/ play chicken with hitchens which ends whichever way that you create. Choose your evolution, be your own rebel, and revolve. Revolve around and judge your own actions, be a mirror, a camera, a blog posting stranger, endanger your assumptions and be the popcorn peeking brief glimpses of your projected love story, comedy, drama, and documentary. Be not the protagonist, be the screenwriter, the director, the guy who clicks the marker at the beginning of each scene.

            I love the reruns, the backward swirl behind a boulder eddy letting wetbeds revisit the steady amidst the rush. We do, we review, we learn. We question, we answer, we question the answers, we ask for input, we discuss, we say it out loud, we say it in thought, we don’t say it at all. We have the gift of the instant replay, the memories, the memories of memories that may or may not even be true anymore.

I don’t just want to learn from my memories; I want to revel in making them.