always already

the music that goes straight to your brain, or wherever it goes, like the way that chocolate creates those pathways of physical memory that a chorus of inner smiles responds to (hello chocolate, hello, heyyyyy, mhmm, everything's fine, just got a whole lot better, you alright?), the recognition of instant and elemental all in one, this music carries my my heart, carries my little fidgety movements, and some days, carries my day, my waking and most recent sleep, the dream that will be later.
On these days, i feel like i am in a greater line of human discontents and supersedence and quirks, subliminally, subliminally, subliminally it is this and it carries me.
and i forget momentarily that i love boys more than blood, and that words are lies, and that electricity is untidy and that feet are the first part of the body. Music is flight.
pharaonic wings in the psyche,
and long strong sings from other people's voices, like a quality of soaring that is aquatic,
and apt lyrics that spit and pull you, yes you, up. These things that are real, know them, this music says (and makes),
and some version of the hyper-real, that ennables music like this, is carried clearly through it and carries me.
Life is so obvious. i love life. i love the everyfeeling, the nothingfeeling, the absolute, the transient, the core.
gayatri spivak wrote pure thought, upon reading it, the words that a reader-over-the-shoulder would have been able to see on the pages in my hands, existed merely as a convention, symbols of language on paper that seek to present thought and i think it is because her writing traversed the grammar and the nouns so very aptly and was already itself, needing no representation.
the last item in the end-of-year out-of-school music concert, was a 9 yr old on the drums, kayaiiiiiii, he flew! in himself, it was like a solitary tornado on the greenish gym matting, on the lines of future basketball courts and soccer fields, in front of knotted ropes and the stupid babyboom period bell, the double doors open and obscuring him somewhat in the light it let through - 11 am.

The Autograph Man Zadie Smith