Today was the First Idea, It was Everything, and Started Just That.

Today was punctuated by a thought. 

My idea came, sat down with me, grinned, lit a cigarette, and chose not to leave.

My idea was favored company, though in slight pretension, an unfavorable circumstance of something that holds favor to your heart and knows it.  

I watched anxiously as the idea stared back with a silence and conviction. Rendering my neurotic behaviors was a sort of pleasurable game to my idea. A brief tremble, bead of sweat was a fine reward.

All was said in my idea's silence, "I know everything." 

Suddenly, in an indistinguishable click or snap. everything poured out of everything, and grew from there. 

Questions moved as they have before, and would always again: 

What is it to wake into the exceptional with an unexceptional mind?

What is it to gaze into the extraordinary with ordinary vision?

What is it to raise the tremendous and tremendously fall?

What is it to volunteer to the plough, when you are no extraordinary strength?

What is it to approach the monarch in a bow, yet not tremble?

What is it to dream of the magnificent to only dream magnificence?

What is it to purpose each moment with ambition to only purpose ambition with moments?

What is it to walk into the stream and to know the stream walks not into you?

What is it to say the same of history?

What is it to be of phenomenon's participance and find that participation was nothing phenomenal?

What is it to be unsubstantial, in the substantial?

What is it to be the other way?

What is it to be the wrong way?

The right way?

What is it to substantiate what is substrate?

What is it to substrate what is substance?

What is it to be dust among quintessence?

What is it to peek through the keyhole and find shame?

What is it to fix what can only break?

What is it to break that can only fix?

What is it to question what is answered?

What is it to answer what is questioned?

The idea laughed, it cried, then in a sigh said to me, "Beyond appetite, thirst, and...libido. It's insatiable. It's madness.

"This matter of letters above, it is the porch of our mind. It is the dim light with bugs of mindless suicide, quick fireworks and detonations of wit, smoke curling in funicular trails, cambial theories, branches of our meditations, fingers resting on knees, heads rested on palms supine, at last, the last pearl of god, eyes distant and amused, lips perched on their own moment, constantly always never arising and never always arising, windows more reflection than transparent, more opacity than sunrise.

"The lawn of perception, the driveway of soul, the street of time, the neighborhood of matter, the city of dimension.

"We talk on the porch of the mind. The insatiable madness, on the demarcation, the line that walks into the house.

"What is it to be the porch but the entrance to the house? The porch is perhaps not the vital limb of what is home. The porch has never been the final resolution to anything. It has never been the seat of atonement. It has never been solution's chair.

"No constitution, treatise, nor armistice was every signed on a porch.

"But it is the announcement. It is the megaphone into the future. It is the throat of Washington's whisper. It is the timid laugh of Lincoln's wisdom. It is the porch. The harbinger and study. The soapbox and howl. The expressions of each thought.

"It is not the ideal but the ideological. It is not the politic but the political. It is not emotion but it is emotional. It is not reason but it is reasonable.

"The porch is the voice of a place in its time. It is the time in its place. It is in all sense modern.

"From each porch across the world. Someone has a story. Someone has a tale that shapes, sculpts, and re-envisions our look on our society, morality, interests, and behavior. Each porch alone is only the entrance to its own mind. But even more, it is the place of expression, of conversation, of discussion. It is the stage for greater understanding, the stage for greater empathy, the stage for great sympathy, the stage for greater knowledge, the stage for greater awareness, the stage for greater confusion, the stage for greater delusion, the stage for greater manipulation, the stage for greater commiseration, corruption, misrepresentation, ostentation, obfuscation, complication, ease, supplication, fright, bravery, martyrdom, greed, diffusion, persuasion, and bloom."

The idea finished. I watched in utter horror as the idea's face searched for my response. I had not the faintest idea what was said to me, and or why, if even that was a remote possibility. 

Yet, judgement made the worse of me in a finer moment. I recognized that somewhere in that cloud, something appeared, or reappeared, something familiar, yet always strange rose and presented itself to me. In the polite, yet brave steps in which we walk into the unfamiliar, I went. For, in this uncertainty,

I knew, hidden in there, was an answer. 

My answer, somewhere there, somewhere in the crowded heart of this world. Somewhere in the mad galaxy of voices, humming one miracle pulse in the heart of mortality.

My idea waved and said, "Come find me and I'll tell you everything."

He opened the front door to my mind. Standing in the doorway I asked where I should look. 

"Every house should start with a porch."

My idea walked in. I ran to the door that opened into my mind. It trembled and shook, columns of lights shot out from all directions, a wind both cold and warm rushed at me in a tidal surge, voices inconsistent, without agency, voices genderless and ageless spoke in profusion, images spun in a dial extending in an infinite tunnel of constellation, and I fell in.

To first look for my idea, was to watch it vanish from me, within me. 

Now I must chase it, starting with any porch I can find.