SUNSPOT: a spontaneous, stream-of-consciousness love letter written in under an hour in a sudden burst of inspiration.
Consider me here, waiting for you; consider me here, sitting alone on my front-steps, eyes hidden behind sunglasses and yet looking up above, watching the planes cutting that perfect sky in to pieces, chemtrails from the exhausts of shimmering scalpels making straight, puffy scars across that endless sea of blue that towers above me, the me that you’ve considered so well and become so goddamn sure of, so sure of and so attached and so in the process of chemicals blending together with mine, skin and sweat and tears and hushed voices lost in the tall, dead grass left over from summer. I sit here on these steps and watch life pass before me, people marching off in the direction I know you’ll be walking from, and how my mind expands at the thought of how small I am in the grand scheme of this chemical dance – this city desert makes you feel so cold, it’s got so many people but it’s got no soul – my body, your body, your mind that glows and violently blooms when it comes in contact with mine, our small little blasts of energy the only thing keeping me grounded as I realize how small I am, how lost I am, how a job offer in San Francisco would tear me apart from this new heavenly glow, and yet hear I’m still sitting, ass planted on the steps. Sunspot. But I’ve always been a waiter, a watcher, unable to escape from the words that I can’t help but watch pour out from me, my mind running now like a flood as I write to you and think about you walking towards my doorstep my dear Sunspot. It’s funny to me how much time I’ve spent waiting for you, dreaming of you during nights god fucking knows how fucking long ago, dreams that sparked in my sleepy darkness before I ever even met you, and now I’ve finally found you, and now I wait, mind on fire and eyes painted towards the sky dreaming of harmony and love, and here’s why I wait: I’m waiting for you as the dance partner, the Muse, The Girl, the blinking and burning light crafted by earnest, sweet and deep and dear idealism and I can’t help but see explosions on the sun when I remember our last few nights together, the walls being painted by thoughts and holy rolling who are we what are doing here what is now what is forever fears anxieties, lovers have always found the eternal in painting the walls that they’ll never finish raising, fear and fear and oh anxiety turning in to colors of their very own and intensity, burning, burning thoughts, now scarring the walls with all their joy and with all their giddy whimsy fury, my burning light kept confident by the light burning beside me; and, since this is a dance and a dance has moves and so a dance has rules, we will do what we were made to do: to skip and laugh and burn ourselves across the surface of this Earth, she and I and I and her and all that we burn with us, whether it is the sidewalks that moan under the weight of our power in the cities that never saw us coming or the people that believed they were dead until they recognized Life or – and this I’m sure of, dear Sunspot – the most likely victim of all: myself, Mr. Jackson Williams, the devoted dreamer of you, the man with the mind that is always at war with itself, a passionate and unforgettable war, a man now let loose to put a light to the world however he sees fit. So long as a light burns beside me, crucial little light as strong as a star, because why would a sunspot wish to burn believing that burning is something that one does alone? I have felt alone for years now, and if I wanted to be really honest I’ve felt alone my entire life. Father never cared about me, my depression kept me locked in a cell that I’ve only recently escaped from – it’s the sunlight that broke the bars, the literal kind that comes down from that nuclear reactor that hums over us all and the figurative kind, the kind that comes not from sunlight but from moonlight, laying under those stars and that big blue moon and realizing that their is a future besides contemplating your own death. Only recently have I returned from years spent running from the depression that pushed me towards the brink of taking my own life – a few attempts, good to still be here – and now I see sunlight, I see the open possibilities of a future that for some reason I feel is begging me to stay here. I will be here forever, and I’m a writer because I write for myself, and when I realize that the world will keep spinning and the people around us will keep moving towards god knows what I can always remember to stop and imagine my beautiful treasures that were merely buried beneath my Converse – now you’re here, now you’re with me, and when I imagine all the possibilities that this brave new world of mine can suddenly become, the room becoming warm again when you step in to it, I realize that I know absolutely nothing about what will happen next.
What could become of us? Will next week be the end or will the weeks suddenly melt in to months and then coagulate until they form years, marching forward like good little soldiers, marching us towards scenes that can only be played through an old-projector, a projector for old home movies – of course, in this little mind of mine, love can only be captured in fading hallmarks and sepia-toned moving pictures. Trust me, dear Sunspot: I think these thoughts every time I meet a girl, and I’m only afraid because when I’m around you I don’t feel like running and there’s no self-sabotage and there’s no more self-doubt. You are my Sunspot, my fireband, my muse, and you become She: standing in a yard, putting wet clothes on a line for them to dry, somehow not getting the memo that dryers have been invented and she can stop living in the past; her face above mine, hovering, she’s all I can see and she looks absolutely beautiful, like some new moon making its debut in the night-time sky, a once-in-a-millenium event for one; a family photo under a tree, She and I and a couple of little kids running around, tormenting each other, they’re clearly supposed to be our little brood of budding psychopaths, each one of them wilder and weirder-looking than the next, and I’m too stupid and oddly content at that time to do a damn thing about their bad behavior, let the little fuckers run around and cause havoc and someone somewhere not named me has probably written that being wild & crazy is good for the soul so you might as well instill it young; now come nebulous images of a street with white fences, each fence and yard and one-story house and even each barking dog identical, designed suburban dreamland, like this wall assembled in some cold factory in the East, whole vast stretches of an imagined suburbia uniformly laid out in neat little rows just to make the imagination stop itself from going overboard, providing flimsy walls to contain that most modest of fantasies; and I see her, there’s that dress, and we spin round and round in a tempest of leaves and pieces from the white fences of that fantastical suburban sprawl, stretch me out forever upon this chemical cloud of lust, wrap my mind forever in the dust-cloud, baby we’re connected only because my hands are on your hips and your arms are over my shoulder, I feel too lost to let go now darkling, and her fingers are slightly laced behind my head…it was at that point, us floating and spinning amidst the flotsom and jetsom of artificial suburban life, that she sticks her tongue out like she’s just gotten through telling me that I’m an asshole and I noticed a little gold ring resting in the very center of her tongue, the diamond sticking up towards the roof of her mouth because it’s being balanced by the tongue, locked and held up-right her folded tongue the world was moving she was floating above it and she was and My eyes pause on this absurb image, focusing heavily on (of course) the diamong ring, shimmer shimmer all that’s gold usually does glitter and just as I get what I suppose you could call a ‘good’ look at it the tongue recedes back in to her mouth, the gate now locked by two rows of perfect, white teeth.
Turn to page 2 >>>>>>>>