what are we (revised)?
what are we?
a girl ensconced in warmth inside a misty car gazes out at the dawn
sleepy-eyed she waits to awake as she stares out her window
streaks of condensation on the glass
early morning light
the quiet
where have we come from?
with the sleep still in her eyes she stares at passing landscape
cows on the twisting ascent upwards
watches clouds settling on mountaintops
the occasional peasant, bent and left speedily behind
where are we going?
down in the valley, a village blurred and smoky rises out of the shadows
the mist is just rising around its gabled roofs
the little grey houses and their washing
in the sky, birds
what are we to do?
taking his eyes off the road for a second, he looks at her
he wants to stroke his hand down her hair but he is unsure
this moment, this girl, is too private
in this moment she is mysterious and beyond his understanding
who are we?
a grey world of water and light enfolds her round-eyed silence
in this bubble of quiet, in her drowsy acceptance
she does not know about villages
she longs only to touch the soft noses of the cows they pass
what are you thinking?
if it were to rain it would be glorious.
June 7, 2002
cats
moonlight laying wet patches of silver on the cold kitchen floor reflects the dark shadows of the twins as they slink in through an unnoticed open window. thieves in the night cannot be quieter than these two, lapping up a careful portion of milk that is rightfully theirs and leaving as silently as they arrive. skimming cream off milk bottles at dawn, licking snow-white paws with obsessive cleanliness, the twins are racing towards a yard that is untouched by men, or dogs. sparrows are going to be watched all afternoon with unblinking intensity, staring upward at the sun, the shadows of birds and leaves dappling across their white bodyrivers, their slinky hides flowing into shade and sunspots like water sluicing silently through a channel in a dam. plugholes of time hang suspended as they play, pawing each others noses, rolling belly up and tail swinging over littered garbage in the car dump yard where even the mice have deserted these dismal surroundings for a better place to die. their fur stays white with each ordered grooming, abandoned house pets with the clean gene still strong in their wild streaks, these gambolling stalkers have grown accustomed to eating little birds and unwary mice without blinking their yellow floodlit eyes. cats are such a mystery when they refuse to do tricks to please people as dogs do. the twins are not performing cats, not large enough, not showy enough, they have been spared because of their ordinariness. cousins from the circus might claim to love the noise and colour of the show but the twins now stay away from human hands, once caressed by soft palms, smooth soothing hands, then turned astray in a pile of rubble with nothing, not even their favourite toy to keep them company they have turned to each other as wild as the day was born again. the trees watch two gambolling wild things toss each other over paws up and rolling on the ground. not even the old milkman knows where they’ve gone to, no fresh cream for the chinese whites in this rusted yard of old cars and deserted wagons, piled up junk breathing mountains of neglect into the sun that shines down on everything indiscriminate harshly this summer. alone again at last they are wilder than the wind can be, they stalk each other amongst the decaying hulks of iron and wood, nimble-paws creeping a silent track in and out of car doors hanging off their hinges, playing hide-and-seek amongst the litter of soup cans and cardboard cartons. as pet cats often have to, the twins will learn how to care for themselves entirely free of people. even children with their cruel hands holding strings filled with rattling things will not get close to them because they have no trust for human company now, need only to feed their lean bellies and sleep, warmly, in the sun.
moonlight laying wet patches of silver on the cold kitchen floor reflects the dark shadows of the twins as they slink in through an unnoticed open window. thieves in the night cannot be quieter than these two, lapping up a careful portion of milk that is rightfully theirs and leaving as silently as they arrive. skimming cream off milk bottles at dawn, licking snow-white paws with obsessive cleanliness, the twins are racing towards a yard that is untouched by men, or dogs. sparrows are going to be watched all afternoon with unblinking intensity, staring upward at the sun, the shadows of birds and leaves dappling across their white bodyrivers, their slinky hides flowing into shade and sunspots like water sluicing silently through a channel in a dam. plugholes of time hang suspended as they play, pawing each others noses, rolling belly up and tail swinging over littered garbage in the car dump yard where even the mice have deserted these dismal surroundings for a better place to die. their fur stays white with each ordered grooming, abandoned house pets with the clean gene still strong in their wild streaks, these gambolling stalkers have grown accustomed to eating little birds and unwary mice without blinking their yellow floodlit eyes. cats are such a mystery when they refuse to do tricks to please people as dogs do. the twins are not performing cats, not large enough, not showy enough, they have been spared because of their ordinariness. cousins from the circus might claim to love the noise and colour of the show but the twins now stay away from human hands, once caressed by soft palms, smooth soothing hands, then turned astray in a pile of rubble with nothing, not even their favourite toy to keep them company they have turned to each other as wild as the day was born again. the trees watch two gambolling wild things toss each other over paws up and rolling on the ground. not even the old milkman knows where they’ve gone to, no fresh cream for the chinese whites in this rusted yard of old cars and deserted wagons, piled up junk breathing mountains of neglect into the sun that shines down on everything indiscriminate harshly this summer. alone again at last they are wilder than the wind can be, they stalk each other amongst the decaying hulks of iron and wood, nimble-paws creeping a silent track in and out of car doors hanging off their hinges, playing hide-and-seek amongst the litter of soup cans and cardboard cartons. as pet cats often have to, the twins will learn how to care for themselves entirely free of people. even children with their cruel hands holding strings filled with rattling things will not get close to them because they have no trust for human company now, need only to feed their lean bellies and sleep, warmly, in the sun.
the rock
it sat lonely in an untouched spot of sun. the silent wind around it played teasingly with the grass, the flowers. but the rock knew no language of movement, it had never learnt how to dance. so it sat there in the unlit stretch of loose sand and stared at the trees and rushes. all around it pebbles littered themselves like solitary madmen. nothing interrupted their posts of immobility unless a stray child with a dog came along skipping home from school. for many millennia now life had been one ceaseless day that blended into night. mornings came and went and the evenings with their pretty purple skies and shining stars drove past leaving scarcely a ripple in the life of the rock. no pebble had ever complained at the sedentary lifestyle of a stony exterior so nobody could have ever imagined the rock’s dissatisfaction with its immovable life. but then nobody had counted on the rock falling in love with the butterfly, either.
it had been a glorious and sunny spring morning. the wind with its usual playful gambolling had rolled about with the spores of dandelions in a tumbling rolling extended race of joy. all about the trees birds had chirped and fluttered, bees lingered buzzing over the sweetsmelling grass and in the distant city chimneys with their blue columns of smoke painted slow films of grey against the bright sky. the rock settled in its customary place by the old elm tree was watching the ants move industriously across the dirt carrying little treasured tidbits of broken leaves, and seeds when suddenly, like a proclamation of a new beginning, a flood of riotous colour burst into movement. a pair of wings more silken than cobwebs and as slender as the shadow of the moon over water was pulsing a furious dance above a cloud of purple pansies. this was the rock’s first sight of the creature unimaginatively named the butterfly. the rainbow burst of colour flitted above the little nodding flowerheads, a long tongue delicately drank in their nectar, and the black scrawls of its feathery legs were soon bright with pollen, gleaming a powdery yellow in the sun. the grass seemed moulded to set itself like a painting around the delicate, exquisite creature perching lightly on the rim of a petal that spring day. and with a single look, the rock fell in love.
unaware of the burning adoration riveted literally to stone under its stencilled legs, the butterfly groomed itself on the back of the helpless rock. no greater love had ever stayed a restless heart than that sunny day in which time stood still as the rock, alive but unmoving, sat silently under the self-absorbed caress of its beloved. after an eternity of unbearable bliss, the butterfly flew off. a few hours later, as is common in the lives of such tiny creatures, the butterfly fluttered slowly to the ground, dead, the bright delirium of its wings exhausted at last. its delicate carcass was soon covered by the wind into a dust print that lingered faintly in the grass.
the rock, unbelieving, unmoving, could only stare in stunned shock as the most ethereal shape it had ever known turned as silent and immobile as stone. the bright wings were torn apart by the ravenous ants, disciplined rank commanders marching all the edible bits of the dead butterfly into the black depths of the anthill. dazed by the enormity of this shattered awakening, in all its millennia of silence the rock had never felt such heart rending pain. staring at the decapitated form of the dead angel that had fluttered among the flowers just a few hours hence, the rock vowed before the laughing wind, the swaying sea of grass, that one day it would be more than just a dumb, helpless rock. on that one day, when someone somewhere would have need of it in someway, the rock would not betray that trust with its futility.
the wind played on and the seasons changed as the cycle of the sun revolved the silent earth through its old pastures of winter and spring. the rock lay fixed as eternity in its shaded spot under the elm, the sun rose and set about its mute form, the little pebbles stayed quiet as time, the river gushed by with new trout, dead leaves, the ants marched on and on, and the days were relentless in their slow passage into night. sometimes the agony of never receiving the chance to keep its vow made the rock clench up inside its stony depths. out of its pain, a small fissure grew along the veins of its smooth heart.
the fissure lay small and quiet deep inside the heart of the rock as the wind whittled stone to sand and the river bore away the corpses of dead fish and moths into its black darkness. there had never been another butterfly after that unforgettable spring day and never did the rock wish to lay eyes on another as beautiful as its beloved. what one loves best is best kept unique from the rest of creation. and so the summer passed once more into winter and a chill set about the land. the quiet snow placed its cold blanket of whiteness on the grass and the wind, no longer playful, howled through the trees, rattling the bare branches with its moody fury. the river froze into a diamond shard of ice and nothing stirred, even the birds had flown away to kinder climes. the rock, unfeeling under the cold mantle of snow, felt the crack in its heart deepen. slowly, irrevocably, the slow ice drove in a little at a time into the tiny tear along its veins. freezing inside the fissure, the rock felt its heart being slowly split open as the pitiless snow dug in cold as an ice pick and just as sharp, forcing entry, freezing at each stop a wider crack than the one it entered through. at the last breath of winter, the rock knew it was only a matter of days before it lay broken apart completely. the fissure was now a star fracture of cracks that spiralled outward through its form, a little more ice, a little more wedging in would severe it completely into a hundred tiny pieces of senseless rubble. the rock felt anguish not so much at its faulting form but at its complete helplessness to keep its vow. resigned to its end, weary of its timeless existence, the unimaginative repetition of the stars and moon, the rock was aware that the end of this winter would uncover a little more dirt under the snow than its start had seen.
until, one day, the sun shone down weakly upon the stillborn land and melted away the frozen expanse into a cold sludge of dirt puddles melding with ground snow. the rock, awake as always, felt the last crack stretch itself slowly outward, working towards its end, working the last of the rock in its journey upward to the light. but before the crack reached its known end, it simply…………stopped. the rock was bewildered. this was a turn of events it had not foreseen. the ice withdrew, the sun shone down handsomely on the happy grass again, the land hummed with a vibrant energy as it thawed from the deep chill of winter. the rock, unseeing, disbelieving, could not do much except lie there and watch the birds and ants and trees play their ancient games all over again.
and then a little boy came walking by. he was looking for something to bring with him to his nature class, a show–and–tell presentation that all little boys take very seriously when they are at a certain age. the theme this week was butterflies. his teacher had warned him that his specimen had better be unique as his last few show–and–tell attempts had been dismally unexciting. the little boy walked slowly about the grass and flowers. he did not know what he was looking for, he had not seen a single butterfly and his empty net swung dejectedly behind him as he walked manfully on amidst the pansies and ants. at last, tired of the hot sun, he sank down in the shade of a great old elm and stared away into space. listless, he picked up a couple of pebbles and flung them half-heartedly into the river winking at him. his hand then closed around the cool smoothness of the rock, something stayed his throwing arm and he held the rock up to his eyes.
in the worn black face of the rock, there were a series of cracks that had grooved themselves into the cool stone. the shape of them mingled and rose into a delicate design that stretched across its scarred surface in the unmistakeable form of a butterfly. unbelievable luck! the natural form of such an exquisite design found carved into the heart of an old rock! whooping at his find, unmistakeably the most unusual in all the show–and–tells ever held, he danced away back home with his treasure in his hand.
as for the rock, placed as it was on the mantelpiece before his bed long after the little boy had grown up and moved away to a bigger city with absolutely no butterflies, the mirror it faced was enough. all day it gazed in wonder at the beloved form it had captured within itself, safe now forever from the merciless elements and wrought into the very heart that bore its cracks as proudly as jewels along its scarred old form.
it sat lonely in an untouched spot of sun. the silent wind around it played teasingly with the grass, the flowers. but the rock knew no language of movement, it had never learnt how to dance. so it sat there in the unlit stretch of loose sand and stared at the trees and rushes. all around it pebbles littered themselves like solitary madmen. nothing interrupted their posts of immobility unless a stray child with a dog came along skipping home from school. for many millennia now life had been one ceaseless day that blended into night. mornings came and went and the evenings with their pretty purple skies and shining stars drove past leaving scarcely a ripple in the life of the rock. no pebble had ever complained at the sedentary lifestyle of a stony exterior so nobody could have ever imagined the rock’s dissatisfaction with its immovable life. but then nobody had counted on the rock falling in love with the butterfly, either.
it had been a glorious and sunny spring morning. the wind with its usual playful gambolling had rolled about with the spores of dandelions in a tumbling rolling extended race of joy. all about the trees birds had chirped and fluttered, bees lingered buzzing over the sweetsmelling grass and in the distant city chimneys with their blue columns of smoke painted slow films of grey against the bright sky. the rock settled in its customary place by the old elm tree was watching the ants move industriously across the dirt carrying little treasured tidbits of broken leaves, and seeds when suddenly, like a proclamation of a new beginning, a flood of riotous colour burst into movement. a pair of wings more silken than cobwebs and as slender as the shadow of the moon over water was pulsing a furious dance above a cloud of purple pansies. this was the rock’s first sight of the creature unimaginatively named the butterfly. the rainbow burst of colour flitted above the little nodding flowerheads, a long tongue delicately drank in their nectar, and the black scrawls of its feathery legs were soon bright with pollen, gleaming a powdery yellow in the sun. the grass seemed moulded to set itself like a painting around the delicate, exquisite creature perching lightly on the rim of a petal that spring day. and with a single look, the rock fell in love.
unaware of the burning adoration riveted literally to stone under its stencilled legs, the butterfly groomed itself on the back of the helpless rock. no greater love had ever stayed a restless heart than that sunny day in which time stood still as the rock, alive but unmoving, sat silently under the self-absorbed caress of its beloved. after an eternity of unbearable bliss, the butterfly flew off. a few hours later, as is common in the lives of such tiny creatures, the butterfly fluttered slowly to the ground, dead, the bright delirium of its wings exhausted at last. its delicate carcass was soon covered by the wind into a dust print that lingered faintly in the grass.
the rock, unbelieving, unmoving, could only stare in stunned shock as the most ethereal shape it had ever known turned as silent and immobile as stone. the bright wings were torn apart by the ravenous ants, disciplined rank commanders marching all the edible bits of the dead butterfly into the black depths of the anthill. dazed by the enormity of this shattered awakening, in all its millennia of silence the rock had never felt such heart rending pain. staring at the decapitated form of the dead angel that had fluttered among the flowers just a few hours hence, the rock vowed before the laughing wind, the swaying sea of grass, that one day it would be more than just a dumb, helpless rock. on that one day, when someone somewhere would have need of it in someway, the rock would not betray that trust with its futility.
the wind played on and the seasons changed as the cycle of the sun revolved the silent earth through its old pastures of winter and spring. the rock lay fixed as eternity in its shaded spot under the elm, the sun rose and set about its mute form, the little pebbles stayed quiet as time, the river gushed by with new trout, dead leaves, the ants marched on and on, and the days were relentless in their slow passage into night. sometimes the agony of never receiving the chance to keep its vow made the rock clench up inside its stony depths. out of its pain, a small fissure grew along the veins of its smooth heart.
the fissure lay small and quiet deep inside the heart of the rock as the wind whittled stone to sand and the river bore away the corpses of dead fish and moths into its black darkness. there had never been another butterfly after that unforgettable spring day and never did the rock wish to lay eyes on another as beautiful as its beloved. what one loves best is best kept unique from the rest of creation. and so the summer passed once more into winter and a chill set about the land. the quiet snow placed its cold blanket of whiteness on the grass and the wind, no longer playful, howled through the trees, rattling the bare branches with its moody fury. the river froze into a diamond shard of ice and nothing stirred, even the birds had flown away to kinder climes. the rock, unfeeling under the cold mantle of snow, felt the crack in its heart deepen. slowly, irrevocably, the slow ice drove in a little at a time into the tiny tear along its veins. freezing inside the fissure, the rock felt its heart being slowly split open as the pitiless snow dug in cold as an ice pick and just as sharp, forcing entry, freezing at each stop a wider crack than the one it entered through. at the last breath of winter, the rock knew it was only a matter of days before it lay broken apart completely. the fissure was now a star fracture of cracks that spiralled outward through its form, a little more ice, a little more wedging in would severe it completely into a hundred tiny pieces of senseless rubble. the rock felt anguish not so much at its faulting form but at its complete helplessness to keep its vow. resigned to its end, weary of its timeless existence, the unimaginative repetition of the stars and moon, the rock was aware that the end of this winter would uncover a little more dirt under the snow than its start had seen.
until, one day, the sun shone down weakly upon the stillborn land and melted away the frozen expanse into a cold sludge of dirt puddles melding with ground snow. the rock, awake as always, felt the last crack stretch itself slowly outward, working towards its end, working the last of the rock in its journey upward to the light. but before the crack reached its known end, it simply…………stopped. the rock was bewildered. this was a turn of events it had not foreseen. the ice withdrew, the sun shone down handsomely on the happy grass again, the land hummed with a vibrant energy as it thawed from the deep chill of winter. the rock, unseeing, disbelieving, could not do much except lie there and watch the birds and ants and trees play their ancient games all over again.
and then a little boy came walking by. he was looking for something to bring with him to his nature class, a show–and–tell presentation that all little boys take very seriously when they are at a certain age. the theme this week was butterflies. his teacher had warned him that his specimen had better be unique as his last few show–and–tell attempts had been dismally unexciting. the little boy walked slowly about the grass and flowers. he did not know what he was looking for, he had not seen a single butterfly and his empty net swung dejectedly behind him as he walked manfully on amidst the pansies and ants. at last, tired of the hot sun, he sank down in the shade of a great old elm and stared away into space. listless, he picked up a couple of pebbles and flung them half-heartedly into the river winking at him. his hand then closed around the cool smoothness of the rock, something stayed his throwing arm and he held the rock up to his eyes.
in the worn black face of the rock, there were a series of cracks that had grooved themselves into the cool stone. the shape of them mingled and rose into a delicate design that stretched across its scarred surface in the unmistakeable form of a butterfly. unbelievable luck! the natural form of such an exquisite design found carved into the heart of an old rock! whooping at his find, unmistakeably the most unusual in all the show–and–tells ever held, he danced away back home with his treasure in his hand.
as for the rock, placed as it was on the mantelpiece before his bed long after the little boy had grown up and moved away to a bigger city with absolutely no butterflies, the mirror it faced was enough. all day it gazed in wonder at the beloved form it had captured within itself, safe now forever from the merciless elements and wrought into the very heart that bore its cracks as proudly as jewels along its scarred old form.
the raft
it is a wooden-hearted raft, and stoic as rafts come. its nerve has been forged entirely in the fires and can hold a steady gaze with the sternest steel. dressed in nothing but a thin, clingy sail, the raft possesses nothing but the memory of nails. it is looking for something to clothe its bareness with. nailed together in the choppy rocks of discontent, it lay moored in the sinking sludge at the pier of desolation when a passing northern song blew it out to sea. adrift now at last, the raft has sailed for a years journey or longer, battered by the tidal waters of the emocean as the great whales sing their sad, lonely songs in the deep. the flickering light of elysium teases it along towards the vanishing horizon that stretches its glittering length from the invisible isles of hope to the undiscovered tropic of dreams. strung along the widening gap between the horizon and the little raft are tangled, twisted lengths of rusted iron hooks, and polyethylene. a delicate garland of hurt for a voyager so rudderless and un-oared.
in the bleak vastness of the emocean, sailing is a wearying struggle against wind and water. the raft has as much chance of reaching a harbour as it has of reaching its own waterlogged, self-marked grave. but on some nights the emocean is beautiful. the deep empty universe turns slowly overhead with its pinprick stars, glowing cratered moon. the distant fins of dark whales rise and sink in water black as the night, a gleaming stretch of sea appearing and disappearing with every bobbing movement forward. rest is impossible in a place of no sleep, only the formless patterns of numbness that draw themselves through the infinite nights drifting crest by swell, calm by storm in the emocean.
the raft has learned the language of whales. often it sings to itself the slow, echoing songs, submerged by surges only to rise wet and loose in the air above the waves again. time has died down to a dim idea or memory of ancient origin, in the recesses of its reverberating heart the wood has relaxed with creaks and lapping water into a concertina of silent whale-song. the raft is dumb with refrains, the silent nights are silent no longer, the days pass by with the changing shade of the sun’s journey across the emocean.
one day the raft will wash up on a desolate sandy cove. the trailing length of polyethylene streamers and iron hooks will float like a bridal train in the water behind it. from the watermarked centre of its wooden heart a song older than time itself will creak its ancient tune to the air above it. around, soft sand, the gentle caress of waves. the horizon, still drifting, will stay fixed just beyond the blue curve of where the ocean meets the sky. moon and stars will travel over its washed clean, nailed body. elysium, unpeopled, uncrowded, will float in and out of its dreams for the sun shining down on the sea, strong and warm as a hug, will sink into its rifts a drowsiness that will unfold gently into slumber. at rest at last in the isle of no name the raft will have found a mooring, in peace, in solitude, in silence. in sleep.
it is a wooden-hearted raft, and stoic as rafts come. its nerve has been forged entirely in the fires and can hold a steady gaze with the sternest steel. dressed in nothing but a thin, clingy sail, the raft possesses nothing but the memory of nails. it is looking for something to clothe its bareness with. nailed together in the choppy rocks of discontent, it lay moored in the sinking sludge at the pier of desolation when a passing northern song blew it out to sea. adrift now at last, the raft has sailed for a years journey or longer, battered by the tidal waters of the emocean as the great whales sing their sad, lonely songs in the deep. the flickering light of elysium teases it along towards the vanishing horizon that stretches its glittering length from the invisible isles of hope to the undiscovered tropic of dreams. strung along the widening gap between the horizon and the little raft are tangled, twisted lengths of rusted iron hooks, and polyethylene. a delicate garland of hurt for a voyager so rudderless and un-oared.
in the bleak vastness of the emocean, sailing is a wearying struggle against wind and water. the raft has as much chance of reaching a harbour as it has of reaching its own waterlogged, self-marked grave. but on some nights the emocean is beautiful. the deep empty universe turns slowly overhead with its pinprick stars, glowing cratered moon. the distant fins of dark whales rise and sink in water black as the night, a gleaming stretch of sea appearing and disappearing with every bobbing movement forward. rest is impossible in a place of no sleep, only the formless patterns of numbness that draw themselves through the infinite nights drifting crest by swell, calm by storm in the emocean.
the raft has learned the language of whales. often it sings to itself the slow, echoing songs, submerged by surges only to rise wet and loose in the air above the waves again. time has died down to a dim idea or memory of ancient origin, in the recesses of its reverberating heart the wood has relaxed with creaks and lapping water into a concertina of silent whale-song. the raft is dumb with refrains, the silent nights are silent no longer, the days pass by with the changing shade of the sun’s journey across the emocean.
one day the raft will wash up on a desolate sandy cove. the trailing length of polyethylene streamers and iron hooks will float like a bridal train in the water behind it. from the watermarked centre of its wooden heart a song older than time itself will creak its ancient tune to the air above it. around, soft sand, the gentle caress of waves. the horizon, still drifting, will stay fixed just beyond the blue curve of where the ocean meets the sky. moon and stars will travel over its washed clean, nailed body. elysium, unpeopled, uncrowded, will float in and out of its dreams for the sun shining down on the sea, strong and warm as a hug, will sink into its rifts a drowsiness that will unfold gently into slumber. at rest at last in the isle of no name the raft will have found a mooring, in peace, in solitude, in silence. in sleep.
paradox
the solemn wood pipes sway lightly against each other in the trees. the sky is high with autumn colours and a soft breath of wind ruffles his hair gently into crests and troughs. he sits under the trailing roots, meditating on his sutras. a deep resonant hum is vibrating in the centre of his inhalations, exhalations. his mind is empty of all thoughts. the hum that fills all of his senses colours his sight with an ocean of hues, his hearing is unaware of anything but its bottomless low of sound. the leaves stripe bars of dappled light across his faceless features. his shut eyes weave a quietude that seems to hold all the woods in silence. only the wood pipes clicking lightly against each other emit slow hollow sounds in the feathers of the wind.
he has sat this still for a month complete, eliminating thought and desire, focusing on the strange balance of the two duelling energies within and without creation. creepers will weave their tangled lengths through his hair, about his folded knees flowers will grow and die. not even the birds will open his eyes to the world of grass and light before him, awake in the tunnel of his individual consciousness, the universe will lose meaning before the central reality.
were his teachers to be present, his unconscious deduction that left the entire universe a peripheral reality would have brought smiles to their faces. the teachers were not young, not old, just ordinary in their preoccupation with the mundane. it was the reason why he’d left the place of no pressure, he could not understand how they could let the mystery of reality pass them by. and so he’d travelled many places, sat under many trees, chased the universal hum until he could hear it in his sleep, all waking moments, in the dark, in the light, with people and alone, just the deep, endless, infinite sound of it. he grew thin as a stick, eating only when the ravaging hunger in his belly broke his concentration, often he would fall asleep in his rigid cross-legged position after successive days of meditation. he pursued the vibration with a focus that consumed his being entirely, not a thought was left in his mind at dayrise or nightset. just the absence of the pulse or the all-filling presence of it.
he grew old, never married, owned nothing, knew no one. wanderer of all places, he had seen none for they were all alike to him. he made no friends, kept no pets, fed no wild thing, not even a plant. his spirit grew narrow as a beam of light as it clung to the eternal sound it heard over any hill, across every river, in all cities, through every weather. and leaning now against the bark of the musical tree with its soft wood pipes and peaceful shade, his back was straight as it had always been and the steady sound of the motion of the universe filled his being entirely as it had for the month he’d sat there in a trance. he had not felt the wind in his hair nor heard the sad wood pipes blow their haunting tune. his last breath was a disciplined inhalation that resonated in his hearing like a flood, it merged with the single reverberation that he had heard all his life.
the solemn wood pipes sway lightly against each other in the trees. the sky is high with autumn colours and a soft breath of wind ruffles his hair gently into crests and troughs. he sits under the trailing roots, meditating on his sutras. a deep resonant hum is vibrating in the centre of his inhalations, exhalations. his mind is empty of all thoughts. the hum that fills all of his senses colours his sight with an ocean of hues, his hearing is unaware of anything but its bottomless low of sound. the leaves stripe bars of dappled light across his faceless features. his shut eyes weave a quietude that seems to hold all the woods in silence. only the wood pipes clicking lightly against each other emit slow hollow sounds in the feathers of the wind.
he has sat this still for a month complete, eliminating thought and desire, focusing on the strange balance of the two duelling energies within and without creation. creepers will weave their tangled lengths through his hair, about his folded knees flowers will grow and die. not even the birds will open his eyes to the world of grass and light before him, awake in the tunnel of his individual consciousness, the universe will lose meaning before the central reality.
were his teachers to be present, his unconscious deduction that left the entire universe a peripheral reality would have brought smiles to their faces. the teachers were not young, not old, just ordinary in their preoccupation with the mundane. it was the reason why he’d left the place of no pressure, he could not understand how they could let the mystery of reality pass them by. and so he’d travelled many places, sat under many trees, chased the universal hum until he could hear it in his sleep, all waking moments, in the dark, in the light, with people and alone, just the deep, endless, infinite sound of it. he grew thin as a stick, eating only when the ravaging hunger in his belly broke his concentration, often he would fall asleep in his rigid cross-legged position after successive days of meditation. he pursued the vibration with a focus that consumed his being entirely, not a thought was left in his mind at dayrise or nightset. just the absence of the pulse or the all-filling presence of it.
he grew old, never married, owned nothing, knew no one. wanderer of all places, he had seen none for they were all alike to him. he made no friends, kept no pets, fed no wild thing, not even a plant. his spirit grew narrow as a beam of light as it clung to the eternal sound it heard over any hill, across every river, in all cities, through every weather. and leaning now against the bark of the musical tree with its soft wood pipes and peaceful shade, his back was straight as it had always been and the steady sound of the motion of the universe filled his being entirely as it had for the month he’d sat there in a trance. he had not felt the wind in his hair nor heard the sad wood pipes blow their haunting tune. his last breath was a disciplined inhalation that resonated in his hearing like a flood, it merged with the single reverberation that he had heard all his life.
lahila and the strange bed-sit fantasy
now, you in your bed resting comfortably in a quiet countryside bed & breakfast have fallen asleep with the old book of local legends by your head. you are asleep in a restless slumber. it is not the nightlight that you have forgotten to turn off above your head that bothers you. the cry of immense black birds haunts your sleep and the wind outside your open window chills your face as it lies under the raised glass. the shadowy forms of trees play upon your features as you turn and curl under the warmth of the covers.
out from the swinging gates of the sunrise, you speed on your white horse towards the scarred towers crumbling in the dawning light. broken turrets turn blank eyes up to the silent morning for help, the plundered mouth of the portcullis gapes open in a silent scream, all parapets are scattered about the old broken windows of a once towering glory. the land about the crushed stone lies flat over half a mile in defeat.
as you race towards the old stones, you remember the days of their splendour, when the elms dared not advance beyond the banks of the distant river inward to the protected land, and great ravens black as night flew above the ramparts of the watch shrieking their news under the moon to the old magicians who watched over the land. all of this to protect the secret ensconced within the towering hold.
you know the story of the red stone, it was found by the watchers of the keep in the last hundred year autumn chill. deep in the silt of the sloping mud of the riverbank, its red glow had been unearthed and brought back to the grey keep. the seven wise ones had made a circle of magical holding for it, no one could pass within its green ring and touch the stone for seven feet outward from where it lay on its bed of exquisitely cut crystal.
you know the reason why the stone is so protected is because it is the stone, the coming of which has foreseen the end of everything known and the beginning of the last war as written in the old books. the stone has a power unique by all the reckoning of the collective knowledge the seven wise ones share. it alone can turn lonely minds astray into a corridor of death, none return when once turned into its hold, its power is as seductive as the warm glow of the sun on a winter morning.
the myth of the twenty frozen gargoyles that were placed around its red glow to guard the magic circle does not scare you. you know the silent armies of the castle that march in and out of the battlement, and you are for the side of the good. everyone knows of the great battle for truth that would have to be fought one day as warned by the elders. the coming of the stone was the beginning of the end though you know it must be guarded long past the end has come and gone, whatever remains of the old towers, and this is the task you have entrusted to yourself.
i am the warrior of the white horse, you cry as you race forward into the blood red rising sun, discarding the fading nightcloak of ignorance as you speed towards the smoking stones of the grey towers. worry drives your hastening toward the stone. the last keeper of its red power must be none but the timeless river, the flowing black water from whence it first came. it is too late to save the towers but you hope against hope that the stone at least lies protected in its powerful circle of watchdogs.
you fly along the drunken length of the drawbridge that lurches on its side into the moat, its ebony edge covered with slimy froth and mud. into the silent courtyard you gallop, steam rising from the quick breaths of your steed clears away in the silence, revealing a desolate desert of sand. not a single body or piece of chain mail lies strewn anywhere at all. it looks as if a great wind has swept clean the plains of the keep. no traces of a war are to be seen.
swinging off your horse you enter the great black mouth of the first hallway of the keep, all around you smoke and sand mingle in a haze that stretches across the great plain till the very edges of the land outside the holding. inside the cool flagging tiles of the main tower you are painted with pools of grey morning light that is streaming in from the broken roof. further into the silent hallway you come to the ruins of the great dining hall that once seated a thousand warriors at a time. you think of how the broken stone and smashed wood have set a scene of devastation that will haunt your eye of memory for many years after you no longer live in this world of sorrows greater than evils.
you come at last to the hold of the protective wraiths that guard the red stone. a faint green light shines through the open mouths of the circle of stone gargoyles that surround the stone on its blinding base of pure crystal. their eyes are cold as they watch you dismantle hauberk and helmet, sword and hood, step softly out of leggings and unwind the last shrift that clothes your form. naked as a rune you step forward to the first watching mask of horror and place your hand on its tongue. the cold light dies out of its cruel eyes and a strange glow settles upon the gargoyle’s countenance as the stoniness of its form begins to soften and melt in a mist of whispering voices that are singing a soft, old melody. the last notes of it float up into the shaft of the tower and out into the morning light.
one by one you return the gargoyles to the songs they once were and each note mingles within the thousand other mysterious ones as the morning streams into the dark hold of the tower that has seen no sunlight for as many centuries as it has stood upon the land near the river. all around you, feathers and wings soar in leisurely wreaths that rise steadily up and away, vanishing into light and air with the songs that you have freed, each tangling in birdlike simplicity with each as they fall away in the vast height of sky above. at last the stone stands uncovered on its crystal mount, it is emitting a faint green glow.
gently you reach into the bright crystal. you are overcome by a soft surge of warmth and you close your eyes for a moment at the sensation. when you open them to focus on the stone again you see it envelop your hand with warm golden fingers that trace their way up your nails, fingertips, phalanxes one by one until your palm is reached and stroked, then the base of your thumb, and in a trance you watch as with each slow caress the touched section of your hand melts away completely. you feel no pain as the soothing fingers move up your arm, leaving nothing in their wake, kneading softly up your shoulder, gliding over your collarbone to trace teasing circles over your breast. you watch in a dreamy haze as they move with a sudden swiftness in through your ribs and reach your beating heart, feel embalmed in a glow as they close over it and then you see nothing at all as everything is bleached into a blinding white light.
if you awoke from your sleep right about now, where would you find yourself? soaked in sweat and entangled in the covers of your bed as your heart beats frantically at the vision of gargoyles and golden fingers that so nearly got you? gradually as you sip a glass of comfortingly real water you might calm down at the realisation that it was only a dream of great ravens with wings covering the moon you saw, and that nothing really circled the three broken towers the ruins of which lay over a great plain beside a shining river only in your dream. and you will know you only dreamt of the red stone that none could hold and decide that you will never again eat cold liver sandwiches before falling asleep in strange places.
when morning arrived and passed and there was no sign of the guest, the landlady came up to check why the late night visitor had missed breakfast. she sank into the armchair by the door in horror at the sight of the bleached white body on the ivory sheet, its open eyes staring sightlessly upward as the sun flooded in from the window above the bed.
if you awoke from your sleep right about now, where would you find yourself?
now, you in your bed resting comfortably in a quiet countryside bed & breakfast have fallen asleep with the old book of local legends by your head. you are asleep in a restless slumber. it is not the nightlight that you have forgotten to turn off above your head that bothers you. the cry of immense black birds haunts your sleep and the wind outside your open window chills your face as it lies under the raised glass. the shadowy forms of trees play upon your features as you turn and curl under the warmth of the covers.
out from the swinging gates of the sunrise, you speed on your white horse towards the scarred towers crumbling in the dawning light. broken turrets turn blank eyes up to the silent morning for help, the plundered mouth of the portcullis gapes open in a silent scream, all parapets are scattered about the old broken windows of a once towering glory. the land about the crushed stone lies flat over half a mile in defeat.
as you race towards the old stones, you remember the days of their splendour, when the elms dared not advance beyond the banks of the distant river inward to the protected land, and great ravens black as night flew above the ramparts of the watch shrieking their news under the moon to the old magicians who watched over the land. all of this to protect the secret ensconced within the towering hold.
you know the story of the red stone, it was found by the watchers of the keep in the last hundred year autumn chill. deep in the silt of the sloping mud of the riverbank, its red glow had been unearthed and brought back to the grey keep. the seven wise ones had made a circle of magical holding for it, no one could pass within its green ring and touch the stone for seven feet outward from where it lay on its bed of exquisitely cut crystal.
you know the reason why the stone is so protected is because it is the stone, the coming of which has foreseen the end of everything known and the beginning of the last war as written in the old books. the stone has a power unique by all the reckoning of the collective knowledge the seven wise ones share. it alone can turn lonely minds astray into a corridor of death, none return when once turned into its hold, its power is as seductive as the warm glow of the sun on a winter morning.
the myth of the twenty frozen gargoyles that were placed around its red glow to guard the magic circle does not scare you. you know the silent armies of the castle that march in and out of the battlement, and you are for the side of the good. everyone knows of the great battle for truth that would have to be fought one day as warned by the elders. the coming of the stone was the beginning of the end though you know it must be guarded long past the end has come and gone, whatever remains of the old towers, and this is the task you have entrusted to yourself.
i am the warrior of the white horse, you cry as you race forward into the blood red rising sun, discarding the fading nightcloak of ignorance as you speed towards the smoking stones of the grey towers. worry drives your hastening toward the stone. the last keeper of its red power must be none but the timeless river, the flowing black water from whence it first came. it is too late to save the towers but you hope against hope that the stone at least lies protected in its powerful circle of watchdogs.
you fly along the drunken length of the drawbridge that lurches on its side into the moat, its ebony edge covered with slimy froth and mud. into the silent courtyard you gallop, steam rising from the quick breaths of your steed clears away in the silence, revealing a desolate desert of sand. not a single body or piece of chain mail lies strewn anywhere at all. it looks as if a great wind has swept clean the plains of the keep. no traces of a war are to be seen.
swinging off your horse you enter the great black mouth of the first hallway of the keep, all around you smoke and sand mingle in a haze that stretches across the great plain till the very edges of the land outside the holding. inside the cool flagging tiles of the main tower you are painted with pools of grey morning light that is streaming in from the broken roof. further into the silent hallway you come to the ruins of the great dining hall that once seated a thousand warriors at a time. you think of how the broken stone and smashed wood have set a scene of devastation that will haunt your eye of memory for many years after you no longer live in this world of sorrows greater than evils.
you come at last to the hold of the protective wraiths that guard the red stone. a faint green light shines through the open mouths of the circle of stone gargoyles that surround the stone on its blinding base of pure crystal. their eyes are cold as they watch you dismantle hauberk and helmet, sword and hood, step softly out of leggings and unwind the last shrift that clothes your form. naked as a rune you step forward to the first watching mask of horror and place your hand on its tongue. the cold light dies out of its cruel eyes and a strange glow settles upon the gargoyle’s countenance as the stoniness of its form begins to soften and melt in a mist of whispering voices that are singing a soft, old melody. the last notes of it float up into the shaft of the tower and out into the morning light.
one by one you return the gargoyles to the songs they once were and each note mingles within the thousand other mysterious ones as the morning streams into the dark hold of the tower that has seen no sunlight for as many centuries as it has stood upon the land near the river. all around you, feathers and wings soar in leisurely wreaths that rise steadily up and away, vanishing into light and air with the songs that you have freed, each tangling in birdlike simplicity with each as they fall away in the vast height of sky above. at last the stone stands uncovered on its crystal mount, it is emitting a faint green glow.
gently you reach into the bright crystal. you are overcome by a soft surge of warmth and you close your eyes for a moment at the sensation. when you open them to focus on the stone again you see it envelop your hand with warm golden fingers that trace their way up your nails, fingertips, phalanxes one by one until your palm is reached and stroked, then the base of your thumb, and in a trance you watch as with each slow caress the touched section of your hand melts away completely. you feel no pain as the soothing fingers move up your arm, leaving nothing in their wake, kneading softly up your shoulder, gliding over your collarbone to trace teasing circles over your breast. you watch in a dreamy haze as they move with a sudden swiftness in through your ribs and reach your beating heart, feel embalmed in a glow as they close over it and then you see nothing at all as everything is bleached into a blinding white light.
if you awoke from your sleep right about now, where would you find yourself? soaked in sweat and entangled in the covers of your bed as your heart beats frantically at the vision of gargoyles and golden fingers that so nearly got you? gradually as you sip a glass of comfortingly real water you might calm down at the realisation that it was only a dream of great ravens with wings covering the moon you saw, and that nothing really circled the three broken towers the ruins of which lay over a great plain beside a shining river only in your dream. and you will know you only dreamt of the red stone that none could hold and decide that you will never again eat cold liver sandwiches before falling asleep in strange places.
when morning arrived and passed and there was no sign of the guest, the landlady came up to check why the late night visitor had missed breakfast. she sank into the armchair by the door in horror at the sight of the bleached white body on the ivory sheet, its open eyes staring sightlessly upward as the sun flooded in from the window above the bed.
if you awoke from your sleep right about now, where would you find yourself?
April 29, 2002
Still scenes from the painting of a magical world
It had been the party of their times. Trolls, gnomes, elves, brownies, pixies, fairies, goblins, ghouls, all witches were invited too. The mincing pirouettes of their faces spun around the magic mirror, wishing for their fantasies on this one night of wishes coming true… the witches spun spells that wove dragonflies out of the moonlight caught in cobwebs, and everyone made the beetles scramble on the backs of their shells as they were turned over, cars stopped by on their long roads to nowhere and danced about with the music of their horns enthralling the night, flatbed trucks, pickups, u-hauls, floats, lorries and all manner of big wheeled automobiles stopped in to look at things, the wondrous night of paper hats and acrobats. The beetles were suitably put out at being knocked over but there had to be one scapegoat for the overall good time, everyone agreed, next summer it could be the mice, they squeaked too much anyway. Lake water shining through the trees was all the light that was needed on the fringes of the biggest party in the woods. The little folk flew up and over the short leaves to light up the trees with their darting flight. Cakes rained down into open mouths through teams of generous butterflies that pulled the right sized pieces up into the night air with their teamwork. Wine sweeter than grapes was drunk in cold small sips delivered to thirsty mouths after dipping the folded leaf that held the liquid in the cold lake. It was the best party that the woods had seen in everyone’s time it was agreed, the best and most beautiful. When it was over, the cricket cymbal band and the drummer ants were disbanded with medals of honour (quite a large number had dropped dead of exhaustion as they’d played on and on and on) while the feathered warblers were gifted sheens to their wings by the pretty fairies who were asked for dances by almost all the elves present. The look on everyone’s face was flushed, happy. The sun rose cheerfully over the treetops and cast a warm glow over the hanging streamers, empty leaf-chalices, lost slippers and gloves, even the beetles had been righted and scurried off into their wooden homes, all butterflies had gone into the flowers to rest their tired wings and the birds were all asleep in their nests. The little folk had gone off, some in pairs and unlikely marriages, gnomes with pixies, brownies with witches, fairies and elves, goblins and trolls, all were either at their homes or someone else’s and the great party site was completely deserted. The sun had never seen such a quietness in morning hours. Bustling into the woods it shone down on the lake and wondered where everyone had gotten to. Staring at its reflection in the blue water it reflected on the signs strewn about. Must have been some party, it thought, and pouted at not being invited.
It had been the party of their times. Trolls, gnomes, elves, brownies, pixies, fairies, goblins, ghouls, all witches were invited too. The mincing pirouettes of their faces spun around the magic mirror, wishing for their fantasies on this one night of wishes coming true… the witches spun spells that wove dragonflies out of the moonlight caught in cobwebs, and everyone made the beetles scramble on the backs of their shells as they were turned over, cars stopped by on their long roads to nowhere and danced about with the music of their horns enthralling the night, flatbed trucks, pickups, u-hauls, floats, lorries and all manner of big wheeled automobiles stopped in to look at things, the wondrous night of paper hats and acrobats. The beetles were suitably put out at being knocked over but there had to be one scapegoat for the overall good time, everyone agreed, next summer it could be the mice, they squeaked too much anyway. Lake water shining through the trees was all the light that was needed on the fringes of the biggest party in the woods. The little folk flew up and over the short leaves to light up the trees with their darting flight. Cakes rained down into open mouths through teams of generous butterflies that pulled the right sized pieces up into the night air with their teamwork. Wine sweeter than grapes was drunk in cold small sips delivered to thirsty mouths after dipping the folded leaf that held the liquid in the cold lake. It was the best party that the woods had seen in everyone’s time it was agreed, the best and most beautiful. When it was over, the cricket cymbal band and the drummer ants were disbanded with medals of honour (quite a large number had dropped dead of exhaustion as they’d played on and on and on) while the feathered warblers were gifted sheens to their wings by the pretty fairies who were asked for dances by almost all the elves present. The look on everyone’s face was flushed, happy. The sun rose cheerfully over the treetops and cast a warm glow over the hanging streamers, empty leaf-chalices, lost slippers and gloves, even the beetles had been righted and scurried off into their wooden homes, all butterflies had gone into the flowers to rest their tired wings and the birds were all asleep in their nests. The little folk had gone off, some in pairs and unlikely marriages, gnomes with pixies, brownies with witches, fairies and elves, goblins and trolls, all were either at their homes or someone else’s and the great party site was completely deserted. The sun had never seen such a quietness in morning hours. Bustling into the woods it shone down on the lake and wondered where everyone had gotten to. Staring at its reflection in the blue water it reflected on the signs strewn about. Must have been some party, it thought, and pouted at not being invited.
grey
You think of love sometimes in the pebble-quiet silences that have fallen upon your life, about how you had so much of it when you were young, so young, and how the possibility of complete bliss lay before you with its buttons undone and warm square of skin lit by the soft lamps of your absolute trust, so beautiful and right that you could not doubt it, pursue it to the end you would no matter what oppositions were thrown in your way, and so you took it, reached out and took it, held the grace of it with both hands, cupped its glowing flame in your palms and felt its heat warm even the distant chills of your heart so much so you rose up into the air like a hot air balloon incapable of not rising once breathed into with warmth, your feet seemed not to touch the ground, they jerked in the instinctive steps of a dance you knew was truly yours alone, the expression of joy that you had waited your whole life to make, to find, to be, and now you were, not alone, not one, but joint with the missing part of you that had roamed the world waiting for your touch, the perfect heat of you that made you look into the mirror with glowing eyes because you had found the end of your quest or so you thought, marrying tenderness with care you brought home the groceries and the car, made wooden shelves for the knick knacks of your dreams, placed wrought iron hearts side by side with crystal angels carved in exquisite shapes of radiance, flowers dried to whorls of earthy brown and red, sticks of incense that filled your nights with perfume heavy as your passion, dark as the door that lay in shadow by the light streaming forth from your heart, and so you thought it was bliss, you thought it was perfection, you thought you couldn’t want anything more and thinking so you stayed out late at night just watching the moon in its empty space, too large for stars to play with, watched it stand in the night sky looking down at the world, unmoving, unblinking, watched clouds swim over its face and disperse, watched the majesty of the glowing sun rise that turned the silver moon to pale grey and finally made it disappear completely, watched how the sun then stood in its solitary silence and burned itself down to a red ball of solitude, tired, waning, sinking down into the mantle of the land to be replaced by the white light of the moon in an indigo sky, the eternal dance of the two as they just brushed past each other, the only two of their kind, yet unable to meet and keep each other company in the endless expanse of sky, you watched and thought of nothing and when you got home you smelt the soup cooking, and it was not the soup you liked, and you wondered how could this be when you never noticed it before, but now you have so you ate it anyway, it grew more inedible with every bite, you forced it down one swallow at a time, you ate until you’d cleaned the bowl and when you lay down in bed a coldness took hold of you and you could not shake it, instead you curled yourself into a corner and tried to sleep, you cannot face the honesty of love because you lied when you ate that soup and now you don’t want to answer any questions because you are terrified of the answers they might reveal, you fall asleep with a tearful voice in your head asking you what’s wrong and in the morning when you wake you are alone, your half of the cupboard faces an empty other half, the kitchen is clean and silent, the dog’s out on his business and the newspaper lies freshly printed on the doormat, awaiting your attention, you stoop to pick it up and suddenly realise how many years its been, you and your newspaper sitting absorbed in each other at the breakfast table, you set the egg timer and every ticking second seems louder than your heartbeat which is pounding in your ears because the enormity of the truth has set upon you now and it has not set you free though in truth that is what you are, free again, alone as before, just the apartment, newspaper, dog and job, the streets filled with strangers, the open windows above brick walls, the flowers in the hedges and the sun, the moon, the limitless sky, all yours again, to watch, to be, your hands shake as you spread open the paper on the table and stare blindly at the first pages.
You think of love sometimes in the pebble-quiet silences that have fallen upon your life, about how you had so much of it when you were young, so young, and how the possibility of complete bliss lay before you with its buttons undone and warm square of skin lit by the soft lamps of your absolute trust, so beautiful and right that you could not doubt it, pursue it to the end you would no matter what oppositions were thrown in your way, and so you took it, reached out and took it, held the grace of it with both hands, cupped its glowing flame in your palms and felt its heat warm even the distant chills of your heart so much so you rose up into the air like a hot air balloon incapable of not rising once breathed into with warmth, your feet seemed not to touch the ground, they jerked in the instinctive steps of a dance you knew was truly yours alone, the expression of joy that you had waited your whole life to make, to find, to be, and now you were, not alone, not one, but joint with the missing part of you that had roamed the world waiting for your touch, the perfect heat of you that made you look into the mirror with glowing eyes because you had found the end of your quest or so you thought, marrying tenderness with care you brought home the groceries and the car, made wooden shelves for the knick knacks of your dreams, placed wrought iron hearts side by side with crystal angels carved in exquisite shapes of radiance, flowers dried to whorls of earthy brown and red, sticks of incense that filled your nights with perfume heavy as your passion, dark as the door that lay in shadow by the light streaming forth from your heart, and so you thought it was bliss, you thought it was perfection, you thought you couldn’t want anything more and thinking so you stayed out late at night just watching the moon in its empty space, too large for stars to play with, watched it stand in the night sky looking down at the world, unmoving, unblinking, watched clouds swim over its face and disperse, watched the majesty of the glowing sun rise that turned the silver moon to pale grey and finally made it disappear completely, watched how the sun then stood in its solitary silence and burned itself down to a red ball of solitude, tired, waning, sinking down into the mantle of the land to be replaced by the white light of the moon in an indigo sky, the eternal dance of the two as they just brushed past each other, the only two of their kind, yet unable to meet and keep each other company in the endless expanse of sky, you watched and thought of nothing and when you got home you smelt the soup cooking, and it was not the soup you liked, and you wondered how could this be when you never noticed it before, but now you have so you ate it anyway, it grew more inedible with every bite, you forced it down one swallow at a time, you ate until you’d cleaned the bowl and when you lay down in bed a coldness took hold of you and you could not shake it, instead you curled yourself into a corner and tried to sleep, you cannot face the honesty of love because you lied when you ate that soup and now you don’t want to answer any questions because you are terrified of the answers they might reveal, you fall asleep with a tearful voice in your head asking you what’s wrong and in the morning when you wake you are alone, your half of the cupboard faces an empty other half, the kitchen is clean and silent, the dog’s out on his business and the newspaper lies freshly printed on the doormat, awaiting your attention, you stoop to pick it up and suddenly realise how many years its been, you and your newspaper sitting absorbed in each other at the breakfast table, you set the egg timer and every ticking second seems louder than your heartbeat which is pounding in your ears because the enormity of the truth has set upon you now and it has not set you free though in truth that is what you are, free again, alone as before, just the apartment, newspaper, dog and job, the streets filled with strangers, the open windows above brick walls, the flowers in the hedges and the sun, the moon, the limitless sky, all yours again, to watch, to be, your hands shake as you spread open the paper on the table and stare blindly at the first pages.
Page from today
I roll slowly over to my back. Overhead a late noon sky is making my eyes water with its expressionless immensity. In a distant corner of the canvas above me, a small cluster of clouds are slowly being herded together by a slow but purposeful force. I feel the breeze make its invisible signs above my outstretched body and the noise of traffic is distant as the sea, it hangs in my hearing like the grass that stays comfortingly in the corner of my vision, endless, unchanging. I take a deep breath and contemplate the sky.
A speck high above me is looping widening gyres around a steeple, round and around it flies, sweeping its span of a sphere to include the world of my vision in its flight. The steeple spire sticks up straight into the sky like a moral of magnetic proportions, drawing the bird to its example by virtue of its immobility. I wonder in a dreamless haze of drowsiness whether the bird is a pigeon or a hawk or a gull. Sparrows, I know, do not fly so high. Chirpy, social, modest birds, they stay close to the warmth of the land as it unrolls before them, whether in the form of trees or buildings. I have noticed them having a particular affinity for electricity lines and washing wires, noting too how they never mess on anybody’s clean laundry drying in the sun.
Returning my attention to the circling bird I watch it swoop and glide around the thin spire as if practicing its flight lines, to what end I don’t know. Maybe birds have hours of rigorous flying that they undertake as exercise for keeping their wings in prime toned condition. I have to smile at the idea of a PE instructor for birds, pecking truants for slowdiving and falling into the ocean to splash about instead of sticking to their charted training flight routes. I reflect idly on how important it is for birds to build muscle for endurance flights, especially if they are the migrating kind that regularly travel absurd transatlantic distances that even jet-engined planes must have stop-over flights on. Thinking about it makes me sad as I am struck by the high number of birds that don’t make it on such trips, what use the muscle and the beauty of flight when all they manage is to drop down out of the sky in exhaustion to die? I wonder why they don’t just stay put and build fat against the cold weather instead, anything to circumvent death.
The death of a bird to me seems an unendurable tragedy, they are so light and perfect in life, so cold and petrified in death. I recall how I found the dead raven in my garden in the late summer afternoon. Its glossy feathers gleamed so black they looked polished but its beak was gaping open and its partially eaten tongue was swarming with ants. I have never seen a birds tongue from so close before, indeed haven’t even pondered over birds possessing one. They have always seemed composed entirely of wingspans and quirky heads to me. One cannot imagine them as having veins or colds.
I see before me again the grim finality of its missing tongue and folded black wings. Feel again the slow indescribable emotion that made me kneel slowly before its hardened form. Its shining wings were cold and stiff, the bird had retained its frozen form in my warm hands and its head stayed fixed as if stuffed by a taxidermist. I’d carried it indoors, found an old shoebox to hold its length and after brushing away the rampaging ants, placed it carefully inside. It felt as if there was a sleeping bird inside the stiff cardboard and nothing must disturb its slumber. And I had carried the box out to a derelict old stadium across my home. There in that broad expanse of space I dug the raven’s grave and buried it with dried beads and shells decorating its length. I knew it had to be a stadium in which it lay finally at rest and hoped its birdsoul soared content within this space where the memories of all sorts of laughter were now enveloped in a peaceful silence. Then I lay down by the pretty little markings of flowers I had made with the colourful shells and stared up at the sky.
The sounds of traffic are distant and measured, steady as my heart beat, steady as the flight of the bird over my head, circling my consciousness round and around until I fall asleep in the sun.
I roll slowly over to my back. Overhead a late noon sky is making my eyes water with its expressionless immensity. In a distant corner of the canvas above me, a small cluster of clouds are slowly being herded together by a slow but purposeful force. I feel the breeze make its invisible signs above my outstretched body and the noise of traffic is distant as the sea, it hangs in my hearing like the grass that stays comfortingly in the corner of my vision, endless, unchanging. I take a deep breath and contemplate the sky.
A speck high above me is looping widening gyres around a steeple, round and around it flies, sweeping its span of a sphere to include the world of my vision in its flight. The steeple spire sticks up straight into the sky like a moral of magnetic proportions, drawing the bird to its example by virtue of its immobility. I wonder in a dreamless haze of drowsiness whether the bird is a pigeon or a hawk or a gull. Sparrows, I know, do not fly so high. Chirpy, social, modest birds, they stay close to the warmth of the land as it unrolls before them, whether in the form of trees or buildings. I have noticed them having a particular affinity for electricity lines and washing wires, noting too how they never mess on anybody’s clean laundry drying in the sun.
Returning my attention to the circling bird I watch it swoop and glide around the thin spire as if practicing its flight lines, to what end I don’t know. Maybe birds have hours of rigorous flying that they undertake as exercise for keeping their wings in prime toned condition. I have to smile at the idea of a PE instructor for birds, pecking truants for slowdiving and falling into the ocean to splash about instead of sticking to their charted training flight routes. I reflect idly on how important it is for birds to build muscle for endurance flights, especially if they are the migrating kind that regularly travel absurd transatlantic distances that even jet-engined planes must have stop-over flights on. Thinking about it makes me sad as I am struck by the high number of birds that don’t make it on such trips, what use the muscle and the beauty of flight when all they manage is to drop down out of the sky in exhaustion to die? I wonder why they don’t just stay put and build fat against the cold weather instead, anything to circumvent death.
The death of a bird to me seems an unendurable tragedy, they are so light and perfect in life, so cold and petrified in death. I recall how I found the dead raven in my garden in the late summer afternoon. Its glossy feathers gleamed so black they looked polished but its beak was gaping open and its partially eaten tongue was swarming with ants. I have never seen a birds tongue from so close before, indeed haven’t even pondered over birds possessing one. They have always seemed composed entirely of wingspans and quirky heads to me. One cannot imagine them as having veins or colds.
I see before me again the grim finality of its missing tongue and folded black wings. Feel again the slow indescribable emotion that made me kneel slowly before its hardened form. Its shining wings were cold and stiff, the bird had retained its frozen form in my warm hands and its head stayed fixed as if stuffed by a taxidermist. I’d carried it indoors, found an old shoebox to hold its length and after brushing away the rampaging ants, placed it carefully inside. It felt as if there was a sleeping bird inside the stiff cardboard and nothing must disturb its slumber. And I had carried the box out to a derelict old stadium across my home. There in that broad expanse of space I dug the raven’s grave and buried it with dried beads and shells decorating its length. I knew it had to be a stadium in which it lay finally at rest and hoped its birdsoul soared content within this space where the memories of all sorts of laughter were now enveloped in a peaceful silence. Then I lay down by the pretty little markings of flowers I had made with the colourful shells and stared up at the sky.
The sounds of traffic are distant and measured, steady as my heart beat, steady as the flight of the bird over my head, circling my consciousness round and around until I fall asleep in the sun.
The transience of...
The ball of fire that used to turn in circles now hung lonely and frozen above the trees in the icy night. So he laughed, angry with his faults. That morning in the sun he had shattered the old ice sculptures that stretched their fragile beauty across the length of the lake and built anew a colder, thinner fear. But the shape of it did not please him. Inspired by the trees, it twisted upward under the stars and was altogether too harsh in the light of winter. Like a coquette exaggerated on the vaudeville stage, flouncing past with rouge-painted cheeks and golden wig of tight curls capped overhead, it appeared a mockery of reality. The boring still life form. Standing back to contemplate it in the artificial glare of attention, the ice stood illuminated in all its alienation from his idea of beauty. He decided to work upon it afresh.
With chisel point as precise as a claw he scratched away the bits that stuck out too far. Scraping, moulding, cutting, slowly he worked his way into the heart of the form, steadily freeing the image that danced before his sight. Refining her fragile beauty, he cut away all traces of dirt impurities from her face and started tracing the line of her lip with a gentleness that made his hands shake in the dark. He wanted her to be perfect and he worked on her slowly, unhurried as a lover of old who knows all the contours of his love even as he traces them in the dark. Her smooth shoulders he carved like a caress in the cold and got bitten by the frost for dropping a warm kiss on their rounded muscle. Her scarf he draped off her arms like broken wings. In the glory of her feet he placed delicate flowers wrought from the smoothest layers of snow. The textures of her skin and hair were moulded by the shadowy light of the stars.
When she stood completed, he could not resist her lure and rubbed a pail of river water slowly into her flesh, smoothening out its flowing lines. Sparkling wet in the moonlight she stood as tall as him and her head as made to proportions fit exactly into his shoulder. He rubbed her cold back, sighed into her neck and dreamed of nothing, at peace in the night.
When he awoke in the morning, his clothes were soaked through and the puddle that lay at his feet was drying in the sun.
The ball of fire that used to turn in circles now hung lonely and frozen above the trees in the icy night. So he laughed, angry with his faults. That morning in the sun he had shattered the old ice sculptures that stretched their fragile beauty across the length of the lake and built anew a colder, thinner fear. But the shape of it did not please him. Inspired by the trees, it twisted upward under the stars and was altogether too harsh in the light of winter. Like a coquette exaggerated on the vaudeville stage, flouncing past with rouge-painted cheeks and golden wig of tight curls capped overhead, it appeared a mockery of reality. The boring still life form. Standing back to contemplate it in the artificial glare of attention, the ice stood illuminated in all its alienation from his idea of beauty. He decided to work upon it afresh.
With chisel point as precise as a claw he scratched away the bits that stuck out too far. Scraping, moulding, cutting, slowly he worked his way into the heart of the form, steadily freeing the image that danced before his sight. Refining her fragile beauty, he cut away all traces of dirt impurities from her face and started tracing the line of her lip with a gentleness that made his hands shake in the dark. He wanted her to be perfect and he worked on her slowly, unhurried as a lover of old who knows all the contours of his love even as he traces them in the dark. Her smooth shoulders he carved like a caress in the cold and got bitten by the frost for dropping a warm kiss on their rounded muscle. Her scarf he draped off her arms like broken wings. In the glory of her feet he placed delicate flowers wrought from the smoothest layers of snow. The textures of her skin and hair were moulded by the shadowy light of the stars.
When she stood completed, he could not resist her lure and rubbed a pail of river water slowly into her flesh, smoothening out its flowing lines. Sparkling wet in the moonlight she stood as tall as him and her head as made to proportions fit exactly into his shoulder. He rubbed her cold back, sighed into her neck and dreamed of nothing, at peace in the night.
When he awoke in the morning, his clothes were soaked through and the puddle that lay at his feet was drying in the sun.
VAST
flames
a great movement starts along the floor in the dark. the majesty of a dying emperor
sounds its sadness across the hallowed wood and the softened sounds begin to turn.
you lose yourself in the wilderness
an arena is darkened to fit all thoughts with appropriate dignity.
yet it is not decorum that dances silently around you. a great defiance swells and rises
higher than the sun.
through the dark wooden ceiling you soar, tossed through to weightlessness in an ebbing and swelling silent heavy sea.
you will never rise again
this vast balloon of sadness burgeons over the sky and it has eclipsed the chandeliers of glory. above the lighted glass, wooden stairs sing of a divine madness meant for someone else
but it is you who is here instead.
a chance onlooker
you watch a stranger’s love strip gently before you. i am not your lover you long to cry
but flow towards it transfixed by beauty and helplessness as it unfolds its wrappings with soft, soft movements
slowly you rise as if bound to a single thread moving upward and so stand immobile. the air around you drifts into itself and forms pictures of indescribable beauty, forming and dissolving like smoke wreathing dreamshapes out of nothing.
a grey cloud whispers love into your ears
you turn to look at your reflection, silenced by the sight.
all you can do is look back.
you have eavesdropped on something that is not yours
but it will hold your hand until the end
you reach for it in the darkness
in the fullness of the moment what turns to you completely without fears and ghosts haunting your memories?
i stare straight ahead as you hold me in silence.
flames
a great movement starts along the floor in the dark. the majesty of a dying emperor
sounds its sadness across the hallowed wood and the softened sounds begin to turn.
you lose yourself in the wilderness
an arena is darkened to fit all thoughts with appropriate dignity.
yet it is not decorum that dances silently around you. a great defiance swells and rises
higher than the sun.
through the dark wooden ceiling you soar, tossed through to weightlessness in an ebbing and swelling silent heavy sea.
you will never rise again
this vast balloon of sadness burgeons over the sky and it has eclipsed the chandeliers of glory. above the lighted glass, wooden stairs sing of a divine madness meant for someone else
but it is you who is here instead.
a chance onlooker
you watch a stranger’s love strip gently before you. i am not your lover you long to cry
but flow towards it transfixed by beauty and helplessness as it unfolds its wrappings with soft, soft movements
slowly you rise as if bound to a single thread moving upward and so stand immobile. the air around you drifts into itself and forms pictures of indescribable beauty, forming and dissolving like smoke wreathing dreamshapes out of nothing.
a grey cloud whispers love into your ears
you turn to look at your reflection, silenced by the sight.
all you can do is look back.
you have eavesdropped on something that is not yours
but it will hold your hand until the end
you reach for it in the darkness
in the fullness of the moment what turns to you completely without fears and ghosts haunting your memories?
i stare straight ahead as you hold me in silence.
More music inspired mania
VAST
Frog
mad arab jangling spurs across the hot terracotta courtyard sees girl cowering by the water fountain and lifts robe to reveal missile from god, a suitable rod to govern a child and when she blanches and turns to run he laughs and slaps his horse into a gallop, is off before she can scream. a nerve wracking experience – to be shamed and not have the opportunity to voice indignation over the episode. she shakes her head and fills her waterbag with the cool flowing water, watches ants walk industriously across the narrow rim of the fountain in single file trying not to get their feet wet. a giggle escapes her because it all seems so absurd, ants on a water fountain marching along and a man who just pops out his penis and waves it at her, a complete stranger. it seemed more wormlike than anything, a big heavy worm twisting in the sun. she giggles again and claps her hand to her mouth at the naughtiness of the thought. on the day of her wedding another robed man enters her chamber and shows her what men do with worms. she does not giggle this time. neither does she notice the ants crawling along the water faucet in the bathroom when she rises slowly to wash herself. the sound of running water brings her no joy, as terror and pain in the dark surface under the harsh tubelight and the wash up takes place after the fact. and yet the ants. she wonders how far away from home they travel when they march for food.
VAST
Frog
mad arab jangling spurs across the hot terracotta courtyard sees girl cowering by the water fountain and lifts robe to reveal missile from god, a suitable rod to govern a child and when she blanches and turns to run he laughs and slaps his horse into a gallop, is off before she can scream. a nerve wracking experience – to be shamed and not have the opportunity to voice indignation over the episode. she shakes her head and fills her waterbag with the cool flowing water, watches ants walk industriously across the narrow rim of the fountain in single file trying not to get their feet wet. a giggle escapes her because it all seems so absurd, ants on a water fountain marching along and a man who just pops out his penis and waves it at her, a complete stranger. it seemed more wormlike than anything, a big heavy worm twisting in the sun. she giggles again and claps her hand to her mouth at the naughtiness of the thought. on the day of her wedding another robed man enters her chamber and shows her what men do with worms. she does not giggle this time. neither does she notice the ants crawling along the water faucet in the bathroom when she rises slowly to wash herself. the sound of running water brings her no joy, as terror and pain in the dark surface under the harsh tubelight and the wash up takes place after the fact. and yet the ants. she wonders how far away from home they travel when they march for food.
more writing inspired by music:
any guesses which song?
(suzanne: Leonard cohen)
jesus was a man who walked upon the water according to the book nobody wrote that tells you the story of when time began so that you learn to speak the truth with your mind and in the silence you sense there is something more to say but no one will tell you what it is and when you speak your words drop down like pebbles on a slope that’s rolling straight to the bottom and no, no more dropping beads down the rosary that is two sizes too small, count your prayers instead because there are so many and even a blind man can be shown the light with the world that he can hear and touch, the feel of skin on a blind palm, the sound of breathing in a blind ear, we live so blindly with our rosaries and idols and prayers and the leaning we suffer through for faith but it is really a matter of trust and no one will tell you this but with the coming of the new messiah there is one face that will not be moved and it is the face of the devil and he will weep because his throne will be lost and all his riches strewn over the holy land and the ash of bitterness will settle all about his high, proud features, burnt roses black with gall will rise into the tears that flow from his torn sight, a blind man defeated by light, he will be smote down by a force he cannot embrace, almost human he will be in his despair and no one will turn to give the blind man a hand because in the psalms and in the bible all written by the invisible voice there are no provisions for a soul that knows not what it is and so we die and we die and we die blind as bats, sinking into the water, reading words with no authors, blinded by faith, blinded by sorrow, blinded by the light because jesus was just a man and he destroyed everything when he started collecting souls like you collect marbles and in your heart you know that the reason you live in darkness is because he talked about the light and closed the door in your face when you sought a glimpse but the lepers who limped into his waiting arms were given souls brighter than the mad blood rushing in your face for it is you he turned into the devil and you will suffer for the sin of curiosity and if you’d only put down that lamp at midnight you would not have singed the golden shoulder with your betraying drop of oil and no sacred scar would have torn you between the mountains and the sea, forever drifting in the black night of your soul with the lonely cries of voices you cannot understand and faces you weep to hear for you are abandoned and the light cannot save you, it will burn you into cinders and that is why you hide, hide under the dirt, cringing at the sun while all above you golden haloes rise to glory and you sit in the acrid dust of darkness and eat your naked heart out with your hands that twist like roots, like roots they burrow into grubby soil and in the moment of the last reckoning it is him you hate who turned you into this, a wretched sinner at the base of a cross, a wooden motif of repentance that will not save you now. you will turn to dust. you will be scattered like the wind.
any guesses which song?
(suzanne: Leonard cohen)
jesus was a man who walked upon the water according to the book nobody wrote that tells you the story of when time began so that you learn to speak the truth with your mind and in the silence you sense there is something more to say but no one will tell you what it is and when you speak your words drop down like pebbles on a slope that’s rolling straight to the bottom and no, no more dropping beads down the rosary that is two sizes too small, count your prayers instead because there are so many and even a blind man can be shown the light with the world that he can hear and touch, the feel of skin on a blind palm, the sound of breathing in a blind ear, we live so blindly with our rosaries and idols and prayers and the leaning we suffer through for faith but it is really a matter of trust and no one will tell you this but with the coming of the new messiah there is one face that will not be moved and it is the face of the devil and he will weep because his throne will be lost and all his riches strewn over the holy land and the ash of bitterness will settle all about his high, proud features, burnt roses black with gall will rise into the tears that flow from his torn sight, a blind man defeated by light, he will be smote down by a force he cannot embrace, almost human he will be in his despair and no one will turn to give the blind man a hand because in the psalms and in the bible all written by the invisible voice there are no provisions for a soul that knows not what it is and so we die and we die and we die blind as bats, sinking into the water, reading words with no authors, blinded by faith, blinded by sorrow, blinded by the light because jesus was just a man and he destroyed everything when he started collecting souls like you collect marbles and in your heart you know that the reason you live in darkness is because he talked about the light and closed the door in your face when you sought a glimpse but the lepers who limped into his waiting arms were given souls brighter than the mad blood rushing in your face for it is you he turned into the devil and you will suffer for the sin of curiosity and if you’d only put down that lamp at midnight you would not have singed the golden shoulder with your betraying drop of oil and no sacred scar would have torn you between the mountains and the sea, forever drifting in the black night of your soul with the lonely cries of voices you cannot understand and faces you weep to hear for you are abandoned and the light cannot save you, it will burn you into cinders and that is why you hide, hide under the dirt, cringing at the sun while all above you golden haloes rise to glory and you sit in the acrid dust of darkness and eat your naked heart out with your hands that twist like roots, like roots they burrow into grubby soil and in the moment of the last reckoning it is him you hate who turned you into this, a wretched sinner at the base of a cross, a wooden motif of repentance that will not save you now. you will turn to dust. you will be scattered like the wind.
(inspired by the air song ‘sexy boy’)
sexy boy with the perfectly chiselled enamel teeth.
smiling like a gleaming toothpaste commercial.
freeze frame.
what did you think about today?
another face, another body, a bed softer than water.
boy with no wisdom teeth makes smiling the base of his career.
women and children flock to his open arms and he’s gotta hug for everyone.
flashes pop bright close up pictures of his red lips on covers of glossy paper that the world swoons over and some wonder angrily how such perfect features can exist while everywhere else people make do with bad breath and split ends and teeth that do not look carved out of marble. eating cheese pizza with strings of mozzarella hanging from between his teeth looks so damn sexy on him.
in restaurant mirrors, late twenties acne-scarred men flinch at their reflections as they compare their hair and teeth to his immaculate beauty.
their faces seem flawed and broken by a will that does not love them as much.
some of them beat up women and dogs, some abandon their children, some attack strangers for the challenge and in each episode they see his face before them and in their minds they are smashing sexy boy to pieces, tearing that smile off his face and shattering his perfect teeth, splitting his perfect lip, burning his perfect skin until he is as broken and flawed as them.
in the will of hundred millions who love him, sexy boy is hated with as much power as lust can stir in the hearts of enraged lovers, women want to claw his eyes out as he looks up at them sleepily from his sexy white bed and their husbands want to hammer his sexy unseen penis to a stake for being as perfect as the rest of him.
but sexy boy is never afraid.
his smile beams out from golden lights relentlessly in a blank eyed generosity for everyone.
to people he seems like he is smiling and staring and standing and sleeping for them alone.
in his eyes heat swirls and rises for everyone, women, men, gays and children too.
sexy boy with his perfect teeth and hair always looking so deliciously healthy is a computer simulation.
sexy boy with the perfectly chiselled enamel teeth.
smiling like a gleaming toothpaste commercial.
freeze frame.
what did you think about today?
another face, another body, a bed softer than water.
boy with no wisdom teeth makes smiling the base of his career.
women and children flock to his open arms and he’s gotta hug for everyone.
flashes pop bright close up pictures of his red lips on covers of glossy paper that the world swoons over and some wonder angrily how such perfect features can exist while everywhere else people make do with bad breath and split ends and teeth that do not look carved out of marble. eating cheese pizza with strings of mozzarella hanging from between his teeth looks so damn sexy on him.
in restaurant mirrors, late twenties acne-scarred men flinch at their reflections as they compare their hair and teeth to his immaculate beauty.
their faces seem flawed and broken by a will that does not love them as much.
some of them beat up women and dogs, some abandon their children, some attack strangers for the challenge and in each episode they see his face before them and in their minds they are smashing sexy boy to pieces, tearing that smile off his face and shattering his perfect teeth, splitting his perfect lip, burning his perfect skin until he is as broken and flawed as them.
in the will of hundred millions who love him, sexy boy is hated with as much power as lust can stir in the hearts of enraged lovers, women want to claw his eyes out as he looks up at them sleepily from his sexy white bed and their husbands want to hammer his sexy unseen penis to a stake for being as perfect as the rest of him.
but sexy boy is never afraid.
his smile beams out from golden lights relentlessly in a blank eyed generosity for everyone.
to people he seems like he is smiling and staring and standing and sleeping for them alone.
in his eyes heat swirls and rises for everyone, women, men, gays and children too.
sexy boy with his perfect teeth and hair always looking so deliciously healthy is a computer simulation.
freewill, played again
another session on pre-ordinance was underway. the debate that needed illustration was the two sided detailing of the eternal game. hidden amidst the dark tenements of broken stone, the faces peeped out at the scene on the city street. a puppy short of breath was bouncing down its paved length with soft ears flapping in the wind. occasionally a dry burst of exhaust would make it sneeze. the watchers knew it was only a matter of time before the black clouds consumed everything as they did so often in the previous examples.
already the grey ocean of early light had rolled into the skies. all was misty with expectation and the black and white puppy with the thin tail was racing towards the bin. as the ineffectual sun rose to a tired half height behind the buildings shadowy outlines, the cars that had stirred early to life multiplied and came prowling hungrily down the street.
the puppy with its round belly and thin tail looked so comical as it hesitated on the side of the street. it had to decide whether or not to take that first and final step away from the curb since it had never been out unsupervised before. the stroke of fantastic luck that had let it escape through a car window was now a defining moment in its young life. the challenge of the bin stood across the road filled with goodies beyond imagining.
the faces watched and waited as the puppy widened its bright eyes in the direction of the temptation across the street. an almost visible energy line shot like a bolt up through its paws and into its warm little black snout. with a jerk of its head it galloped straight and joyfully onto the street in the exuberance of the young.
a huge black diesel truck ran over it…
and a little mass of fur lay ironed out like an impressionist painting on the gravel. it lay in the shape of an arrow pointing towards the bin of last surprises.
the waiting faces sighed and slunk back into the shadows, whispers about death and choices drifted into the air. a stubby legged furball had just illustrated another point in the diagram of life and death.
but no one noticed the cry that never came except for the black bellied diesel truck that had swallowed more than the form of a puppy. later in the afternoon, the truck witnessed tears and hysteria as the house it stopped at to make a delivery recognised the remains of a shredded collar hanging off its otherwise immaculate fender.
the lesson had been pre-arranged and the puppy was fated not to last the dawn but in the absence of morals within the story, what would you do if you had been the choiceless fender?
another session on pre-ordinance was underway. the debate that needed illustration was the two sided detailing of the eternal game. hidden amidst the dark tenements of broken stone, the faces peeped out at the scene on the city street. a puppy short of breath was bouncing down its paved length with soft ears flapping in the wind. occasionally a dry burst of exhaust would make it sneeze. the watchers knew it was only a matter of time before the black clouds consumed everything as they did so often in the previous examples.
already the grey ocean of early light had rolled into the skies. all was misty with expectation and the black and white puppy with the thin tail was racing towards the bin. as the ineffectual sun rose to a tired half height behind the buildings shadowy outlines, the cars that had stirred early to life multiplied and came prowling hungrily down the street.
the puppy with its round belly and thin tail looked so comical as it hesitated on the side of the street. it had to decide whether or not to take that first and final step away from the curb since it had never been out unsupervised before. the stroke of fantastic luck that had let it escape through a car window was now a defining moment in its young life. the challenge of the bin stood across the road filled with goodies beyond imagining.
the faces watched and waited as the puppy widened its bright eyes in the direction of the temptation across the street. an almost visible energy line shot like a bolt up through its paws and into its warm little black snout. with a jerk of its head it galloped straight and joyfully onto the street in the exuberance of the young.
a huge black diesel truck ran over it…
and a little mass of fur lay ironed out like an impressionist painting on the gravel. it lay in the shape of an arrow pointing towards the bin of last surprises.
the waiting faces sighed and slunk back into the shadows, whispers about death and choices drifted into the air. a stubby legged furball had just illustrated another point in the diagram of life and death.
but no one noticed the cry that never came except for the black bellied diesel truck that had swallowed more than the form of a puppy. later in the afternoon, the truck witnessed tears and hysteria as the house it stopped at to make a delivery recognised the remains of a shredded collar hanging off its otherwise immaculate fender.
the lesson had been pre-arranged and the puppy was fated not to last the dawn but in the absence of morals within the story, what would you do if you had been the choiceless fender?
a story about love, contd
the mists of dreams awaited had always veiled the night from her star-studded gaze. in her secret mirror she’d seen glimpses of the life that stood before the rest, the relentless course of it as it paced ahead of them with breath as cold as the winter wind. but in her reflection there was no real reason for her choice of good fruit over the unremarkable paths of others.
always she chose apples and cherries, round, red, tart things that would hold shape to the best of their ability. she’d fling the red fruits close to the centre of the lake and watch them sink, their little reflections mirrored fractured ripples outwards. in her hand, her paring knife lay sheathed. overhead, birds inquisitive as mice scampered around the red drownings.
spring children spying on ducks and frogs called her the red-cheeked lady and smirked at the picture she made, casting fruits from her worn basket into the lake. measured aim and measured eye for apples, cherries, cherries, apples, pick, pluck clean of twig, and calm, measured throw to the water’s middle. they thought she was mad though harmless.
if she had known their thinking she might have told them about the garden under the water, the bright red garden that grew hourly with the fruits she planted. and how it had no keepers but awaited just one guest. for many years had it been grown and for many more would it stay uncomplaining and faithful to its expected visitor. all it required was a couple of well-aimed throws a day and it would stay in waiting and in bloom.
years passed by like confetti and still each morning a basketful of red fruit would find its way, piece by piece, into the green water. under the waves, smiling dolphins cavorted in her head, chucking cherry pits into the reeds. the shelled mirror was entangled with coral and little fish swam into its invisible surface with quick darts. she sat by the fallen apple tree and threw fruit over its knotted bark until her arms ached and she could throw no more.
she grew old with time and labour.
in the last year of her winter, lines on her forehead and lean cheeks that wrinkled with the rising sun made her older than the children, they had grown up and moved away and new children in the woods called her the old witch casting spells over water. they wouldn’t play when she was about for fear they’d be enslaved by any one of her particularly malevolent spells. no one trusts mysteries, not even old ones.
she would have told them then that the only spell she’d been weaving for years was love. but its potency was illusion, her garden lay untouched in its watery bed. red and inviting were the fruits and yet were they all pristine. her fingers were gnarled with twig-plucking and no one had come to take what she offered. the guest had never arrived. now as she sat mumbling to herself broken fragments of tunes that hidden ears jeered at, she knew it was no use. the garden would die with her death.
she dedicated it to the water-lilies.
the mists of dreams awaited had always veiled the night from her star-studded gaze. in her secret mirror she’d seen glimpses of the life that stood before the rest, the relentless course of it as it paced ahead of them with breath as cold as the winter wind. but in her reflection there was no real reason for her choice of good fruit over the unremarkable paths of others.
always she chose apples and cherries, round, red, tart things that would hold shape to the best of their ability. she’d fling the red fruits close to the centre of the lake and watch them sink, their little reflections mirrored fractured ripples outwards. in her hand, her paring knife lay sheathed. overhead, birds inquisitive as mice scampered around the red drownings.
spring children spying on ducks and frogs called her the red-cheeked lady and smirked at the picture she made, casting fruits from her worn basket into the lake. measured aim and measured eye for apples, cherries, cherries, apples, pick, pluck clean of twig, and calm, measured throw to the water’s middle. they thought she was mad though harmless.
if she had known their thinking she might have told them about the garden under the water, the bright red garden that grew hourly with the fruits she planted. and how it had no keepers but awaited just one guest. for many years had it been grown and for many more would it stay uncomplaining and faithful to its expected visitor. all it required was a couple of well-aimed throws a day and it would stay in waiting and in bloom.
years passed by like confetti and still each morning a basketful of red fruit would find its way, piece by piece, into the green water. under the waves, smiling dolphins cavorted in her head, chucking cherry pits into the reeds. the shelled mirror was entangled with coral and little fish swam into its invisible surface with quick darts. she sat by the fallen apple tree and threw fruit over its knotted bark until her arms ached and she could throw no more.
she grew old with time and labour.
in the last year of her winter, lines on her forehead and lean cheeks that wrinkled with the rising sun made her older than the children, they had grown up and moved away and new children in the woods called her the old witch casting spells over water. they wouldn’t play when she was about for fear they’d be enslaved by any one of her particularly malevolent spells. no one trusts mysteries, not even old ones.
she would have told them then that the only spell she’d been weaving for years was love. but its potency was illusion, her garden lay untouched in its watery bed. red and inviting were the fruits and yet were they all pristine. her fingers were gnarled with twig-plucking and no one had come to take what she offered. the guest had never arrived. now as she sat mumbling to herself broken fragments of tunes that hidden ears jeered at, she knew it was no use. the garden would die with her death.
she dedicated it to the water-lilies.
to melissa, a pigeon in flight again
in the shadows of buildings, hope blooms like a lily in the cool waters of a lake. somewhere in the crumbling tenements, a girl with hair dark as wood lifts her arms up to a lemon sun. from her cupped hands, a bird restored will wing it up into the deep bowl of blue sky.
in these citified moments of peace, car horns sunder all silence into shreds of tattered thought, shadows the size of apartment complexes hood the people’s faces as they walk on. those escalator stairlines. bags and worries falling from their hands and hearts as the yellow sun breaks through the washing lines. it banishes all black smoke into the chimneys that need disciplining. she waits in the arch of old stone overlooking vistas of concrete. in her palms she holds the memory of wings ruffling the calm breezes of the sea.
in its receding, the light of day rises about the faces of people looking eastwards for hope. and even as the soot of factories is dispelled by rain clouds over the glowing horizon, all that glitters must fade to grey. in the silence of silenced machinery, something will tear loose into the sky as clouds loom over the buildings. when all is drenched with the wet of last years condensation, the sun will disappear into its little dark knoll of shelter from the storm. and she sticks clippers into hedges and prances about the tight boundaries, singing rain songs.
the little fish in the gutters splash into rainbows of fractured oil, streaking the night with colour. flies capture the light of lamps in their translucent wings and beat the heavy tattoos of flight under the setting sun. not a dog or cat stirs to noise in this silent miracle of a city quietened by golden shadows.
she sees all this in the heartbeat of the moment she holds in her hands, a living pulse warm as a feather. altogether composed in its frantic desire to ride the wind once again. a wing restored, a bird in the sky, she looks up over the windows across tv antennas as a little grey flapper makes a brief silhouette against the sun.
*
in her dreams at night there was always just one story.
the resolution it required for her hero to keep searching was the part that she played over and over again. he would put on his travelling cloak, hood his light hair from the wind and step forward, straight into the dark heart of the forest, seeking. he would always be determined to best his trials and come to her alive, scathed but so much more appealing than ever before. only the weak died young.
the empty drapes of her window fluttered as the cars drove up nightly, serenading her with their chorus of drunken songs and screeching tyres from hastily-stepped on brakes. when she found her herself reaching for the sleeping pills beside the bathroom mirror, she’d pull open the medicine cabinet and read the labels of the bottles inside it. in her mind, a warrior fairer than his horse would rise from sleep and pull on his dark grey travelling cloak, looking for her.
in the bed, under the smells and noises she would shut her eyes and lie back in quiet. in her dreams he would ride through deep dark forests, intent on his journey of many secrets. following trails only the birds had seen, she’d chase through trees taller than the sky, blotting out voices in her sleep to call out to him, her hero of the shining hair and ready sword.
at the newspaper stand, beside the barking dog and rustling debris of yesterday’s papers, she’d lean back against strangers and smell the leather of his vest. his warmth drew her into dryness as the rain pelted down on her hatless hair, with wet eyes and hair she’d burrow into him, smiling. people watched and stared and walked on by, twisting their heads for a last look at the thin girl hugging a pole.
it was always at night that he came for her. seeking for her amidst the dim shadows of trees, he’d pause and stare into the darkness with eyes that knew her heart and in his gaze she saw longing, for she had need and it was his duty to give her what she desired. railing at the stairwell she’d race down the stony steps and emerge still alone into the dark city night, her cheeks wet with yearning. but always the trees separated them. though she could see him clearly across the veils of obstacles, in the park, in the park her heart would clamour.
one night, after a persistent voice in her bed had hit her mind with his belt, sharply so as to draw blood in her thoughts and stain the white wedding gown she always wore for him, for when he would find her, she ran out into the night, driven by a love so intense she thought her heart might burst with it. tonight, the faces about her whispered, staring until the whites of their eyes passed out of her sight. tonight, tonight laughed the shadows in the trees, tonight hissed the pavement under her feet as she raced towards the park, dry haired and sweating.
the wind passed through her thin white gown like a blade as it whipped her hair into her eyes and she could see him, outlined in white, waiting with that look in his eyes again. she thought there was nothing more than to go to him and be held, just once. behind him, the river glittered with its diamond teeth, and he stood there, smiling, because tonight he had found her. through the years of fruitless searching, she would be his at last.
slowly she walked into the park. the nightlights were glowing and the trees were ghostly green. a few scraps of paper rustled about the path that led to the lake, the ducks had wandered into the woods and there was no sound but dry leaves underfoot, even the frogs were silent. tonight, he whispered, his smile tender, his arms outstretched as he walked backwards, luring her on. just a little further, come, his eyes pulled hers as he walked into the silver water. her first step wetted her gown and raised icy goose bumps along her legs and arms.
tonight, whispered the lake reeds as she stepped forward, sinking into his arms that were colder than ice. gradually, their desperate kiss of welcome froze them into a statue of ecstasy as she slowly sank to the bottom.
*
April 25, 2002
its been so long since i came here last i've almost forgotten how to do this.
ego's - - ah - well, shes older
bigger
better
and so much has happened but so little has happened that its all too much effort to recount.
i'm in love with simplicity
i hope we last forever and ever
the way the trees sound in the wind
the dots in the air
all of it and me
and a dog, too
March 9, 2002
thursday, march 7th. 2002
a series: the puppy chronicles
i get a dog.
holy christ.
i see her and my heart explodes. instant love. she is THE BEST DOG EVER!!
niki decides to reject her on sight cause she's a she and not a he.
niki wants a MALE BOXER so this little one must go, apparently..
ha. i'm making her mine this very minute says my heart. and i lie, coerce, cheat and embarrass justto get her to stay the night.
tomorrow we'll exchange her, i promise.
(ha)
this is the brightest, least scared dog i know. she's so brave, unafraid of anything, explores like an intrepid traveller...
she's perfect for me
this is love
her first night in the household is spent peeing thrice on my mums bed, to the LARGESCALE disgust of my mum..
a series: the puppy chronicles
i get a dog.
holy christ.
i see her and my heart explodes. instant love. she is THE BEST DOG EVER!!
niki decides to reject her on sight cause she's a she and not a he.
niki wants a MALE BOXER so this little one must go, apparently..
ha. i'm making her mine this very minute says my heart. and i lie, coerce, cheat and embarrass justto get her to stay the night.
tomorrow we'll exchange her, i promise.
(ha)
this is the brightest, least scared dog i know. she's so brave, unafraid of anything, explores like an intrepid traveller...
she's perfect for me
this is love
her first night in the household is spent peeing thrice on my mums bed, to the LARGESCALE disgust of my mum..
January 31, 2002
the trick is to submerge yourself completely underwater and try holding your breath for ¼ of a minute. 20 seconds. your ear dums will amplify sound like a released spring and your eyes will bleed into light. the dancing of blood red spots that twist and turn inside your head. and the smell of nothing. nothing.
how late is late?
its too late already.
we have arisen and gone now. gone to innisfree. and have you ever seen purple linnets wings? the evening full of menacing things? i have. yes, i am stoned. yes, i am at work. funny. last night i had another dream. a beetle that crawled huge as my arm along the terrace floor and my aunt jumped on it and squished it except it caved in upon itself like rubber and my ex boyfriend came down from australia looking a corpselike australian white with blood corpuscles in his nose. and my best friend playing coy with him. me watching it all, the feeling of bugs and scratchy things crawling up legs, my arms.
i must not do this again.
i must do this again.
i must not.
i must.
i..
i...
.
focus.
is what is.
required
here.
you should try a mushroom when you're in the middle of a formal place. people with heads on sticks. rats and children following you out of town
*
December 22, 2001
the fantasy of life. you know how its bled into? slowly dyed in with your colur, hair plaited, skin creamed, eyes mascara-ed into a shade of fantasy so woven into you that you are indistinguishable from your dream?
weaving strands into daylight beginnings, this is your nightmare, this is your dream, this is your life and this is a mockery.
how does it feel?
the moon sets on unhappiness like a duck on heather, quietly, patiently.
what more can it hatch? in the total animal egg of time there is no period to it all. ceaseless unending rotting with lies, grins. fake smiles and stabbing, laugh a mocking one.
you're so tricky
how did you get so tricky?
how did you get so rotten?
because when you walked away you broke my mind into a thousand pieces and years from now, years from now i'll be duller, less sharply in focus but still, the only jagged piece will be the thought of you.
you might not have planned it because you loved you said
but here we are and this dead animal, time, it sits on my front porch and stares at me with bleak eyes.
am i unaffected apathetic one with not a lot to say and every step a shuffle>
i hate corridors you know, it always feels like someone's watching me behind the corners i pass, someone lying in wait for me ahead. stalkers must lead such a weird existence, always waiting waiting. what patience is thereby developed and that's a funny word, this family of words thereby therefore thereunto hitherto herewith forewith hereafter thereafter father mother sister daughter son is the only oddball that doesn't quite fit into the chant.
obscure chant and what will YOU have sir? a long island iced tea? VERY good sir, one long island iced tea coming up, hold the lemons, we already have a prize leMONHEAd here. would you be needing sugar sir? such a sour countenance would demand some sweetness we'd think...
...all a man needs at the end of a hard day is a little bit of sweetness hahahahahha i read that somewhere, some black hoe-digger in some garden labour chaingang who knows? came home to his fat mama and said:"gimme some of yore sweetness, mama!" hahAHAHahahahahAHa...
this radiohead live show at suffolk really sucks. thom sounds as if the vocals are such a big DRAG and that he'd rather be at home in BED slEEPing. or shagging. or watching bad tv. he sounds DEPRESSING and this music is fucking well depressing ME. i want some godspeed... ethereal violin, don't ever stop your crying. lift me up in a cloud of sadness and show me the sores and sighs of the world, this christmas string of lights, these broken trees and faces in the dark walking, watching, stumbling..
fUCk but i shouldn't have taken this pill.
i can't think right now. the clock's ticking is so LOUD i can hear it above these violins, these goddamn minute hands fucking ticking ON and ON and stop them someone its a scary fucking sight watching time moving forward its so goddamn relentless no bloody surprises ahh but this is a good song. now he sounds like he's finally stirred from his goddamn apathy...
the tinkling in that song always makes me think of christmas, those little remote figures that move in glass globe paperweights, with the snow falling on their pretty little figures, eyelashes. "this is my final statement" and no, no surprises please...
should i sleep now? i must end this thought though i'd like to go and on but my fingers hurt, i've had a long and rambling conversaion with no one in particular and now i must get myself some tea, try to come down, contract my pupils before my mum gets home and shrieks.
~grilledjürgendeus?ta
December 21, 2001
sigh
have a merry christmas. i love you and hope you always love the world as much as you do now.
i've been sad. and cried all day. i don't know why.
maybe i shouldn't listen to the music i do.
i will sign off now because its all too much effort. have to get to bed so as i can be better and get to work tomorrow..
see you.
much love.
December 20, 2001
but what about the sleeping silence?
it lies sleeping in the shadowy depths of forever, undisturbed
by random millennia, warm in its central heating.
its back is striped and its arms are furry.
once when the snow set upon the ravines with a blast of artic fury,
it was quite articulate in its disapproval. it awoke and howled like
some crazed beastie, sending shivers down the spine of anything alive
(and possessing a spine) in the area.
but then nothing was.
alive.
then.
now it's sleep has been unbroken for two earth ages,
though it has rolled around twice to find a better position.
the third time might be the last but you never know with sleeping silences.
waiting to be found.
and what will it do once it has been?
dot dot dot
?
~grilledjürgendeus
it lies sleeping in the shadowy depths of forever, undisturbed
by random millennia, warm in its central heating.
its back is striped and its arms are furry.
once when the snow set upon the ravines with a blast of artic fury,
it was quite articulate in its disapproval. it awoke and howled like
some crazed beastie, sending shivers down the spine of anything alive
(and possessing a spine) in the area.
but then nothing was.
alive.
then.
now it's sleep has been unbroken for two earth ages,
though it has rolled around twice to find a better position.
the third time might be the last but you never know with sleeping silences.
waiting to be found.
and what will it do once it has been?
dot dot dot
?
~grilledjürgendeus
what are we?
What are we? A child ensconced in warmth inside a misty car gazes out at the dawn. Sleepy-eyed she waits to awake as she stares out her window. Streaks of condensation on the glass. Early morning light. The quiet.
Where have we come from? With the sleep still in her eyes she stares at passing landscape, cows on the ascent, twisting. Watches clouds settling on mountaintops, the occasional peasant, bent and speedily left behind.
Where are we going? Down in the valley, a village blurred and smoky arises out of the shadows with the mist just rising around its gabled roofs. Those little gray houses and their washing. In the sky, birds.
What are we to do? Taking his eyes off the road for a second, he looks at his child. He wants to stroke his hand down her hair but he is unsure. In this moment she is mysterious and beyond his understanding. This child, this moment, it is too private.
Who are we? A gray world of water and light enfolds her round-eyed silence in a bubble of quiet. And this is how she grows. Within this bubble, in this drowsy acceptance. She does not know about villages, she longs only to touch the noses of the cows they pass. They look so soft.
What are you thinking? If it were to rain it would be glorious.
~grilledjürgendeus?tasha.
What are we? A child ensconced in warmth inside a misty car gazes out at the dawn. Sleepy-eyed she waits to awake as she stares out her window. Streaks of condensation on the glass. Early morning light. The quiet.
Where have we come from? With the sleep still in her eyes she stares at passing landscape, cows on the ascent, twisting. Watches clouds settling on mountaintops, the occasional peasant, bent and speedily left behind.
Where are we going? Down in the valley, a village blurred and smoky arises out of the shadows with the mist just rising around its gabled roofs. Those little gray houses and their washing. In the sky, birds.
What are we to do? Taking his eyes off the road for a second, he looks at his child. He wants to stroke his hand down her hair but he is unsure. In this moment she is mysterious and beyond his understanding. This child, this moment, it is too private.
Who are we? A gray world of water and light enfolds her round-eyed silence in a bubble of quiet. And this is how she grows. Within this bubble, in this drowsy acceptance. She does not know about villages, she longs only to touch the noses of the cows they pass. They look so soft.
What are you thinking? If it were to rain it would be glorious.
~grilledjürgendeus?tasha.
you know, its almost uncanny how little i can predict my own behaviour. i know how people are always going on about what they are and their inner selves and such a what a therefore yes. but all i know about me can be fit into a particle accelerator and all i can predict about me can squeezed into the dream of total atomic mass. i know what i want that metaphor to mean, so i'll stick with it.
like yesterday for instance. i mean, i come across the freaked out pages of a pie chart lover. *deleted from the estate of marilyn monroe* and what was that? not a silk stocking, not a billet doux... but a dead thrush. does anything make sense anymore? at the market last evening, a catty femme made me bite into a raw green pepper pod... i did it on the unspoken dare of discovery -- i didn't KNOW it was pepper! a blazing inferno in my head! the charred remains of my tongue! man, now i know what it feels like to have the top of one's head shoot up and away, smoking into the sky! just like it ahppens in the cartoons! i thought i was blinded for sure...
so anyway, i end up drinking this vile tasting frogspit type soda juice thing with the eye of newt and tail of bat in it i'm sure, from a stall nearby (if i hadn't drunk something to put uot the fire in my mouth, i would have died of asphixiation - i was too distraught to even breathe) - and consequently i'm down with the heaving forties. i'm doing the dance alone and under my own aria - retches timed at every half hour doctor, she's labouring but they're coming along well.. oh well oh well..
all of which is completely random and has nothing whatsoever to do with my behaviour, predictable or otherwise. so where was i? just about to get to bed . g'nite daddies and mommies, sistah's gotta brand new bag :)
~grilledjürgendeus?tasha.
Cacoëthes Scribendi
(An itch to write)
Thela hun ginjeet...............
(or the deception of the thrush)
"What does anything MEAN basically?
..... And a big hello and salute to the Bunnymen & the Chameleons who helped show me What It Means To Be Free.
Because as I sat in the court of the Crimson King watching peacocks strut around the thrones of solid gold and feeding the perfumed ladies lies (biding my time with the courtiers) ... I noticed Asteroid B612 skulking embarrassedly down the gullet of distant space, trying to disappear.
And then it did.
(*a shrug is called for here* There are more things on heaven and earth Natasha, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.)
-----> Take dust motes for instance; their incessant sunlit dancing. Always dancing! Mad, frenzied reaching out... frantic spirals racing toward incandescent oblivion!
Trying to dance ourselves out of existence are we?
Riddle me THAT!
Amusing.....
But but but I turned off the road HERE, officer, and I found no place to park!!
And shall we go then, you and I...
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherised upon the table?
(into the transitive nightfall of diamonds)
Did I get the celebrated tow-truck treatment, do you think, complete with visits to the balding Deputy High Commissioner in Charge of Parking Violations thrice weekly and four times on weekends in the 'burbs? Did he take my pulse too? (For when I was young I wanted to drive a lorry, bright yellow like hardhats in the rain, construction barrels in bloom yellow, swanky as the devil. One twist of a ponytail and Hello! I'm Bill! You're friendly neighbourhood lorry driver! I can build you anything with Mechano sets and Lego! Speak to me - speak to me - speak to me - - - -)
No, he didn't.
I used to be so good at that funny stick game... prising sticks delicately out a jumble under the unblinking gaze of eagle-eyed cousins waiting for as slip of hand. A little heavy breathing made the game more interesting) ...... (And some things never change)
My moments in the sun.
Why are they so important?
This flashback life.
Watch the little girl at play, taking out memories one by one on rainy days and clapping her hands in glee - how they sparkle! Hold them up against a dirty sky (they don't make them like they used to anymore) and - - - - - AND who will point out the difference between cheap imitation and beaten gold if to the uninitiated tongue it tastes the same? Is reality definitive outside us? And - - - - - AND what if - like me - something else preserved its toys well into the age of senile remonstrance, past their usefulness, past everything's prime - what if memory really IS a cold bedfellow when the night could be warmer than all the oven fires in all the oven homes of children's fables in the 70s - what if WHAT IF?
I don't know. I grow too old to play. Inside me something weighs as heavy as lead mi corizon esta triste... And yet my heart is a storehouse, filled nevertheless with many-hued things of brilliance and splendour, objects d'art I will never part with. And so I remain, contemplating the sanctity of the past. De mortuis nil nisi bonum... but that is bunk. History is bunk! said some famous statesman and Nietzsche died believing that there was nothing but this corporeal existence, this saturated form.
I am a visitor in my life on a night like this. I wander down twisting corridors, touching this, dusting that - and a sweet melancholia settles my drugged blood in peaceful waves of blissfulness.
drugs?
drugs!
The five primary types : analgesics, anaesthetics, hallucinogens, stimulants and depressants. The wonderweed, of which I absorb vast quantities now and then, is a hallucinogen... tragic, as I always thought of it as stimulant........ But at least I was right about the food groups. All you need for a life of health and well-being, children, is one representative of each of the major food groups taken DAILY!
Well, I've had my sugar and grease and booze, all I need now is a caffeine and then I'm done, I can go home.
Something to wing its way heavenward (some nights I fantasise):
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
- e.e.cummings
************************************************
(An itch to write)
Thela hun ginjeet...............
(or the deception of the thrush)
"What does anything MEAN basically?
..... And a big hello and salute to the Bunnymen & the Chameleons who helped show me What It Means To Be Free.
Because as I sat in the court of the Crimson King watching peacocks strut around the thrones of solid gold and feeding the perfumed ladies lies (biding my time with the courtiers) ... I noticed Asteroid B612 skulking embarrassedly down the gullet of distant space, trying to disappear.
And then it did.
(*a shrug is called for here* There are more things on heaven and earth Natasha, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.)
-----> Take dust motes for instance; their incessant sunlit dancing. Always dancing! Mad, frenzied reaching out... frantic spirals racing toward incandescent oblivion!
Trying to dance ourselves out of existence are we?
Riddle me THAT!
Amusing.....
But but but I turned off the road HERE, officer, and I found no place to park!!
And shall we go then, you and I...
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherised upon the table?
(into the transitive nightfall of diamonds)
Did I get the celebrated tow-truck treatment, do you think, complete with visits to the balding Deputy High Commissioner in Charge of Parking Violations thrice weekly and four times on weekends in the 'burbs? Did he take my pulse too? (For when I was young I wanted to drive a lorry, bright yellow like hardhats in the rain, construction barrels in bloom yellow, swanky as the devil. One twist of a ponytail and Hello! I'm Bill! You're friendly neighbourhood lorry driver! I can build you anything with Mechano sets and Lego! Speak to me - speak to me - speak to me - - - -)
No, he didn't.
I used to be so good at that funny stick game... prising sticks delicately out a jumble under the unblinking gaze of eagle-eyed cousins waiting for as slip of hand. A little heavy breathing made the game more interesting) ...... (And some things never change)
My moments in the sun.
Why are they so important?
This flashback life.
Watch the little girl at play, taking out memories one by one on rainy days and clapping her hands in glee - how they sparkle! Hold them up against a dirty sky (they don't make them like they used to anymore) and - - - - - AND who will point out the difference between cheap imitation and beaten gold if to the uninitiated tongue it tastes the same? Is reality definitive outside us? And - - - - - AND what if - like me - something else preserved its toys well into the age of senile remonstrance, past their usefulness, past everything's prime - what if memory really IS a cold bedfellow when the night could be warmer than all the oven fires in all the oven homes of children's fables in the 70s - what if WHAT IF?
I don't know. I grow too old to play. Inside me something weighs as heavy as lead mi corizon esta triste... And yet my heart is a storehouse, filled nevertheless with many-hued things of brilliance and splendour, objects d'art I will never part with. And so I remain, contemplating the sanctity of the past. De mortuis nil nisi bonum... but that is bunk. History is bunk! said some famous statesman and Nietzsche died believing that there was nothing but this corporeal existence, this saturated form.
I am a visitor in my life on a night like this. I wander down twisting corridors, touching this, dusting that - and a sweet melancholia settles my drugged blood in peaceful waves of blissfulness.
drugs?
drugs!
The five primary types : analgesics, anaesthetics, hallucinogens, stimulants and depressants. The wonderweed, of which I absorb vast quantities now and then, is a hallucinogen... tragic, as I always thought of it as stimulant........ But at least I was right about the food groups. All you need for a life of health and well-being, children, is one representative of each of the major food groups taken DAILY!
Well, I've had my sugar and grease and booze, all I need now is a caffeine and then I'm done, I can go home.
Something to wing its way heavenward (some nights I fantasise):
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
- e.e.cummings
************************************************
December 2, 2001
a prune for a PLUM
so well i had a late saturday night. or should i say early sunday morning? sleeping in my car... not. weird dreams that reflected strange fears (are you scared of prunes? do you cringe before that giant prune in the sky that will rain its wrath down upon mankind for our lawlessness and wicked ways?)
(just yesterday i read about a kid who got trampled by a camel in the sands of time.)
(camels feature prominently in my remininsces and i always try and work them into any discussion you see. this is all because of the camel terror of my childhood where once at the zoo i smelt the breath of this ancient bad-tempered beast close up before screaming a blue streak and leaping into the brave arms of my father)
(if that wasn't pure tripe i don't know what is)
(right. and now for end of these parentheses...)
just a note for the day, its been good, hey ma, i'm alive and i don't need your money. what i need is an educayshun so i can make speeches on tv and talk about the end of global warming and the spacetime equation and how leptons are quarks with idenity crisis problems really and how sunil dutt and rajesh khanna the two bengal tigers at the zoo are only ambassadors of mankinds expanding love for its animal brethren, so what if they are sick and listless with brilliant orange coats are dull with neglect. love is compromise and understanding when your partner fails to give you what you need to live.
i must stop now or this vein will be too saturated to cut open tomorrow.
so well i had a late saturday night. or should i say early sunday morning? sleeping in my car... not. weird dreams that reflected strange fears (are you scared of prunes? do you cringe before that giant prune in the sky that will rain its wrath down upon mankind for our lawlessness and wicked ways?)
(just yesterday i read about a kid who got trampled by a camel in the sands of time.)
(camels feature prominently in my remininsces and i always try and work them into any discussion you see. this is all because of the camel terror of my childhood where once at the zoo i smelt the breath of this ancient bad-tempered beast close up before screaming a blue streak and leaping into the brave arms of my father)
(if that wasn't pure tripe i don't know what is)
(right. and now for end of these parentheses...)
just a note for the day, its been good, hey ma, i'm alive and i don't need your money. what i need is an educayshun so i can make speeches on tv and talk about the end of global warming and the spacetime equation and how leptons are quarks with idenity crisis problems really and how sunil dutt and rajesh khanna the two bengal tigers at the zoo are only ambassadors of mankinds expanding love for its animal brethren, so what if they are sick and listless with brilliant orange coats are dull with neglect. love is compromise and understanding when your partner fails to give you what you need to live.
i must stop now or this vein will be too saturated to cut open tomorrow.
December 1, 2001
November 29, 2001
and dogfish puff bubbles in the deep
its been a long day. i've been working at a pc for the last month almost 24 hours, little food, hardly any sleep, images bombard their way into my head and inside me the voice that would scream LET ME OUT is quiet, tired, my throat fucked from smoke and drink and manic speech, the world has lost its fullstops.
meherjui daryush and kiarostami abbas and yes even makhmalbalf mohsin are great burning lamps in the halogen starred sky of cinematic tears but there is one silenter and more unknown, one who would not reveal the face with many mirrors for the mirrors all lie and this i know and this was told to the ancients for which no self-respecting greek came to the defence of a 72 year old wise man perhaps the only the world has known - when he was executed and slowly the veil of death crept in silence over his prone body, wrinkled wisdom snuffed out with a sip and centuries years of eyes that follow his life and breathe his soul out over beer mugs like opium smoke and the mists of a himalayan mountain peak so cold and did you think numbness could be this invigorating?
i - i wish i were laying me down to sleep for the dawn sits far on the horizon, all is dark and all is silent, a faint memory of music swirls across my lap and slips noiselessly to the floor and i want more you know, i always wanted more, when they came to tell me this was it, this was all there was really, i couldn't scream, i lay there and watched the gulls circling over the sea and through the sun streaming in and onto me, my hair, the bed, i saw it all as i knew it should have been, soaring.
my ceiling is extraordinary for the years i have lived it has lived and absorbed my thoughts it has like waterpaper soaking up the rain and streaked now with wisdom now with memory many many nights do i find my peace just staring, dry eyed in the dark, it is not wise to think i say and retire to my soul's thought chamber alone and chanting obscure quotes whose authors long dead have been buried now under the weight of critical thought but have you ever heard music, music that could make you rise up with no reason for rising straight up from your chair right in the middle of a meeting with twenty faces puzzled looking at you and waiting for a comment you aren't going to make because it was a reflex like the way you react when dirt gets in your eye, blink, sudden and strong, just with the memory of a movement in an orchestral manoeuvring that earned some band lots of money and kept the publicity machine churning and that is the dirty truth and it is the hardest to accept because it is dirty, it is impure but here it is, here it comes, we all make money in the end...
maybe if i knew the secret and i had the answers and i could speak the truth about the universe once and for all, they wouldn't believe me anyway or if they did i would have fan clubs and loyal supporters rallying at my speeches with little flags and placards and maybe someone would hate my guts and form anti-me groups and maybe i would be murdered by a violently unamused person one day and i would have made a lot of money by then and lived all over the world, for richer or poorer conditions, all depending on the convictional pretensions i hold for the time.
maybe i should stop now.
its been a long day. i've been working at a pc for the last month almost 24 hours, little food, hardly any sleep, images bombard their way into my head and inside me the voice that would scream LET ME OUT is quiet, tired, my throat fucked from smoke and drink and manic speech, the world has lost its fullstops.
meherjui daryush and kiarostami abbas and yes even makhmalbalf mohsin are great burning lamps in the halogen starred sky of cinematic tears but there is one silenter and more unknown, one who would not reveal the face with many mirrors for the mirrors all lie and this i know and this was told to the ancients for which no self-respecting greek came to the defence of a 72 year old wise man perhaps the only the world has known - when he was executed and slowly the veil of death crept in silence over his prone body, wrinkled wisdom snuffed out with a sip and centuries years of eyes that follow his life and breathe his soul out over beer mugs like opium smoke and the mists of a himalayan mountain peak so cold and did you think numbness could be this invigorating?
i - i wish i were laying me down to sleep for the dawn sits far on the horizon, all is dark and all is silent, a faint memory of music swirls across my lap and slips noiselessly to the floor and i want more you know, i always wanted more, when they came to tell me this was it, this was all there was really, i couldn't scream, i lay there and watched the gulls circling over the sea and through the sun streaming in and onto me, my hair, the bed, i saw it all as i knew it should have been, soaring.
my ceiling is extraordinary for the years i have lived it has lived and absorbed my thoughts it has like waterpaper soaking up the rain and streaked now with wisdom now with memory many many nights do i find my peace just staring, dry eyed in the dark, it is not wise to think i say and retire to my soul's thought chamber alone and chanting obscure quotes whose authors long dead have been buried now under the weight of critical thought but have you ever heard music, music that could make you rise up with no reason for rising straight up from your chair right in the middle of a meeting with twenty faces puzzled looking at you and waiting for a comment you aren't going to make because it was a reflex like the way you react when dirt gets in your eye, blink, sudden and strong, just with the memory of a movement in an orchestral manoeuvring that earned some band lots of money and kept the publicity machine churning and that is the dirty truth and it is the hardest to accept because it is dirty, it is impure but here it is, here it comes, we all make money in the end...
maybe if i knew the secret and i had the answers and i could speak the truth about the universe once and for all, they wouldn't believe me anyway or if they did i would have fan clubs and loyal supporters rallying at my speeches with little flags and placards and maybe someone would hate my guts and form anti-me groups and maybe i would be murdered by a violently unamused person one day and i would have made a lot of money by then and lived all over the world, for richer or poorer conditions, all depending on the convictional pretensions i hold for the time.
maybe i should stop now.
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