This is a story about Jack & Jill & let me be clear let me clarify without confusion that Jack & Jill do indeed go up the hill but Jack isn’t always Jack & Jill isn’t always Jill & I am not always me & you lover you are not always you but sometimes Jack is Jack & Jill is Jill & I am I & you are you & the family they aren’t real they are all in my head but sometimes images are released & sometimes Jack is Jack is Jack & I wouldn’t want you lover to be confused & so I clarify now.
In the city of heat I was made in the city of heat from the heat & the sweat & Mother & Father that they had tried & that Mother had lost others before me & that it was what miracles & image of those before me & a car accident removed one I know & I don’t know about the others only that there were others but it must have been the heat that preserved me & like formaldehyde & I am imperfect but close enough that if needed my preservation could be dissected & studied later.
To begin at the beginning you must start at the bottom & move upwards as the American Dream as the corporate world there is no starting at the top & moving down unless you are afflicted with the guilt of the liberals but even then the desire of continuation the desire for more moving inside you & forgetting guilt to move up always moving upwards until there is no more up but the clouds & even then dreaming of further & higher & past the moon past gravity bringing down.
Us lovers we have created for ourselves our own history & you lover sometimes I just look at you & I am enamored all over again & you lover sometimes you see me looking a fool & you lover you become annoyed & you say Why do you have to look at me that way & I say Do you remember that first time you touched me & I say It was like that time I was stung by a bee & my throat was a fist & I couldn’t breathe & they shot me full of adrenaline & I thought I would die.
A brief explanation: Seeing six lines some whole some broken & these divided top three bottom three & making patterns & patterns representing heaven, swamp, fire, thunder, wind, water, mountain, or earth & these stacked making a hexagram & I am not the writer of this that I am not the originator that there have been before me centuries of fate from this the book of changes & there have been so many more translators & that I am just another translator to offer you a story.
Father used to be painter & a builder & Father he used to make so many things & I am told that before his hair shined white he was a painter in the country of heat & loving my mother he gave up oils for numbers & Father became a mathematician for my mother & for my mother migrating from the country of heat to here & Father unable to form words & Father bowing his head & cleaning other people’s shit & the day he stopped & began to paint again joy & then the stroke.