Chaotic Good
I need enough room to be chaotic,
to hop about in strange hats, to
sizzle and pop, to bounce like one
of those super balls between the
walls of what's possible, and even
so, there should be the chance of
an open window and time to get
lost and roll down the street amid
a world of strange, rapidly-firing
stimuli that I stick to and let go.
I need big stacks of blank pages
and multi-colored erasable pens
and things to shape between my
hands and things to break and
make whole again, and forces to
tame and rules to bend, and safe
places to quickly fall down and
unphased, stand up boldly again.
I need a pass on the laws of time
and space. Permission to walk
away. Permission to come back.
An open landscape in which to pace
without rhythm or well-worn path.
And a surprising lack of limits,
definitions, expectations. Swirling
autonomy that would cause some to
have panic attacks, and that others
might fold their arms at. I'm talking
too much freedom. An unmonitored
and overly-equipped laboratory,
a weirdly-resourced playground in
which to perform my reckless magic.
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