Saturday, October 17, 2009

"Anatomy of a serial lover" by Richard Schemmerer




















Revolution in imagination
Or Anatomy of a serial lover


I am always walking past fires of books burning at places of history; I am passing by walls that echo the voices of the exiled from life, the crashed, the lovelorn, the heart beaten.
My brain has feet, which carry me along on their wild goose chases of finding reliance along fields of hope and joyful singing meadows.
I am alone at least alone in human numbers but obviously I am literally engorged by living energy.
The roots of ancient trees give way under my step; the air opens in front of me like a welcoming matrix to let me transgress through time and space.

I don’t have a fly over permit but a walk through ordinance. The habits I have are like the steps repeat themselves like a mechanical doll but there is comfort in the predisposal of predictability.


My steps are like a line up of thoughts with each step I get a little closer to where I think I want to be.
I rummage through my mind like as if it is an old closet with discarded treasures stacked underneath new favorites; I walk through my mind like it is an Amazon forest and expect to find new species underneath the same patterns or a miracle solution to an old problem that plagues humankind.
Around every winding I find myself pausing to catch up with my beating heart pounding with extreme pleasure by being lost in myself.
My toes tingle in anticipation of the virgin ground they are able to step on sending shivers of information up my lax spine like the plant roots sending signals back to the main body to suck up more life energy to blossom with deeper conviction to bust out in brighter blossoms.
My senses are like Chinese fire crackers exploding in silly folly; my senses becoming tentacles that dig deeper into liquid light reflecting pleasure like raindrops so that my skin bubbles with little craters of happiness.

I am a gatherer not of mementos but of moments that are as shy as a spurned deer.
I am a collector of recollections and store them in my limb muscles so that they can become part of my essence, the me that is walking in the midst of Paradise and knows it.

Everything is an encounter of the first degree; the fly that passes by on its way to find a spot to sun bath, the cumulus clouds that drift by like a bunny shaped pillow for no specific reason or the dew that reflects the carved sky, all are building my world.

I step passed the memories that throw themselves in front of me like children in a third world country starved for food and attention like the memories of obituaries about the aborted ideas that never had a chance to prosper or the bits and pieces of headlines that cut little ridges into my awareness or the clever phrase I overheard and still echoes in my brain cavity; all of the above is competing for my attention for my validation reminding me to continue on my quest to remember, to become whom I suppose to be.

I am hoping to become more like me while I am walking past trees that are calling my real name while I follow the wind that leads the way ahead and the birds who with flapping wings remind me not to stray and the gurgling sound of water rushing, falling just to become silent again.
Finally I come to rest on its vibrant shore where somebody had come here before me writing with pebbles in the shiny sand
“ I am a serial lover, why don’t you join me”
and like shocked by a virtual stroke I jump back a leap in time with a smile racing across my face knowing hearing a familiar voice from better days announcing its return bouncing up and down in my head yelling
“ Me too, me too, I am one of you”
and
I don’t even feel my feet dancing and my voice lifting because I am ruptured by the moment of recognition as I become the note the song I am suppose to be.
It is the song I am meant to sing on all of my walks through life because I have become the meaning of my life become the I am.
I walk on embodying the truth that is also my purpose that I am one of the serial lovers and that the revolution in imagination has begun
because love is not some limited experience but
“love is and infinite idea”.

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