flight of the arctic geese in son et lumiere

It's in the north, isn't it, where the accordian is fetched from beside the cabinet, or unhung from the wall, played after dinner, put on stage, taught to semi-autonomous preteens by hardworked, wellfed, mature people, with squat fingers in semi-autonomous regions.
The squatter the fingers, the further north? Or is it the hard work and the weather and the leisure in accordian enclaves, the squatter the fingers? Or is it just that dancing fingers in the light of the fire look truncated?
I watched a program of recently migrated girl-relatives, who maintained their music and spirits by practicing and performing on the instrument they brought with them, don't ask me on what - a train, a series of buses traducing the desert, in one of their backpacks, I like to imagine several ways of passage, that wasn't in that segment of the documentary, and prefer to have it hazy and replete with possibility - and they weaved with the music, twitched their necks, bent their knees as they moved for the camera in the small room swept clear of furnishings, with a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. They were very young and very proud and their mother had made them up with green eyeshadow and vaseline on the fine hair that doesn't reach to a ponytail. They did a sort of mimetic dumshow of the emotions the lyrics were to elicit from their audience. That got me.
Blatant fakery, is still something that another way of seeing, a rephrasing, is still unable to be acceptable to me. But they were real enough, and the music is old, and it's necessary to many people, over a great stretch of tundra.
The accordian in itself, as it appeared to me as a child, is in the radio family, small people, orchestras, chairs and changing rooms inside.

myopic and blinkered reiterate "...as I thought" to each other, And those with a more certain gift for comedy exclaim, "Further proof!"

Monday the 22nd of January, 2007

In the days after - the shape of things resettled into their contours - when his gaze alighted on some assortment, it was as though millions of butterfly wings came to rest in one breath.
Indoors, it gave his thought-heart a gasp of ghost pain.
Outdoors, the light that suffused everything seemed to bang against itself in the resolutely independent hues of the multicoloured decoupage of downtown.
Shadows chronologically surpassed their neverending illusions of geometry.
Cans and corners, heights and slopes came into a solid undercurrent that let him stand as though on an entirely new and unconceived of planet.
Flimsy as the past now proved itself, the unarguable solidity of the present kept him guessing at the unfamiliar centre of gravity now located within him.

the day dawned bright and clear

Sunday the 21st of January, 2007
last night, my apartment shuddered.
I ran outside. There was one light window on the ground floor.
The lady inside asked if I meant the shaking, she didn't feel anything.
I went upstairs, with my heart like a schooner sail in a squall.
I went upstairs with the complete and immediate collapse of large structures in a rotating panorama before my eyes.
I went upstairs knowing that I would sit on the ground rather than walk myself toward perdition.
I went upstairs to the third floor, which, incidently, is where my belongings, those I would take in both hands and those I would be relieved at sudden removal from my possession, are arranged in current ergonomy.
I went upstairs, and knocked on neighbour first and neighbour on the block-end of the building. Villa. We live in a villa.
The end door opened and the waft of industrial volume fishpaste that came out stayed with me all the way back to the eerily undisturbed interior of my apartment.
The machine in her living room groaned in rust grating cycles. It hadn't been in operation for the last couple of weeks.
I slept through the night for the last couple of weeks.
She didn't know about the shaking.
I thought about moving the bed frame with the mattress on it directly under the central light.
It is large and Soviet/1930s functional, frosted glass suctioned onto the papered ceiling.
I didn't.

Fado

Wednesday the 10th of January, 2006

Should be of all proportions.
Until it changes, it can be no other way.
That is, the present, and my current perspective are sufficient for sustainability of the life partative to the nodes on this and that plane as they interfere in the communicative sphere.
The urge to make lyrics is stymied by my lack of projection at the moment. If there is no ideal state to allude to, no history to eulogize, sparse nostalgia, to whom can I address my yearning?
Perhaps a hymn to the felicity in my life?
I'd rather hang out with the people I like, than wind strings around my emotional response to their impact on me, or to the effect they bring to the colours of life.
A rhythmic meditation on the recurring words of my semiotic environs?
It is until it changes.
Come on, a patter that is easily wrought, that makes you laugh because words so easily assemble into seemingly realistic phrases that bear nothing veritable?
Could. Won't. I remember clearly what I was really thinking when I wrote them but others don't and can't say when or if one would supersede the other.
Who cares?
Is it important?
To me, here, now, yes.

crisscross

Sunday the seventh of January, 2007

The things we know, we know them well. The thrill of the new, the cast of the old, the words which herald ourselves to ourselves. Symbolic, incantatory, familiar.

In the family of language, we grow up. From the sense that bursts forth in a tongue, a calendar begins that lets us say, perhaps, "In the beginning..."

yes I'm laughing, but persevere throughout -

for now, look within language - there is always always to regard the ex- and ante-lingual - to consider, gently,

when thoughts are stripped of words, quick liquid through my brain, where do you find your place, where do you make your place, crouched, and when words pry you from your refuge, then my thoughts stand akimbo, unformed and articulate. I am more dense, now, and purposeful and idling missile.

CCXLVI Ozymandias of Egypt Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains: round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.