Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Were the families.
On the 14th of July the pines fell into the wind.
Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.
Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
it ain't me babe
Sunday the 20th of May, 2007
the boys are looking for a hole. It's not me.
the girls are looking for a husband. It's not me.
Conversation, spark in the eyes, a grin that knows, and something new. Something utterly new.
Not getting it from them, but they're not getting it from each other.
How can they predetermine their options, and limit their options, and be content with something so parched?
Can smile at life. What am I? I am not. I am the buddha.
O
String a string back: are they doing it in pursuit (smile, smile, smile) of identity, security, rote activity?
Where is the security in going back to home, with halfgrown progeny. To undertaking short courses on floristry, jewellery making, to enquiring of friends the prospects for immigrating in Argentina, New Zealand, the Netherlands?
In subsuming into the dualcomposed domestic career-unit, running the enterprise without overt acknowledgement. and stringent demands. Particular demands, and expectations, and finely-honed, specialist skill-sets that, quite frankly darling love, can be ridiculed from allcomers. And will be. Empty air in lands that are not yours. When the question is repeated, "When are you going home?"
And smiling and absorbing the insults under cover of impeccable manners, diplomacy, and the brazen delivery of them, mockery broadcasted to the onlookers.
Embodying the focus for all illthought out, deeply felt, ventable frustrations of inequality. And of viciousness which we shall not mention, see above.
Displaying the veneration of your partner, tu sartorial marker of attainment, ambition, and reward.
You, proxy for all emissions.
You, receptacle.
Another strand: are they doing it in concord with the release of physical tension? Walking dickhead.
As if the world entire was made for the better enjoyment of their dick?
Who indulges another in this, and why?
No stopping to ask. Must forge ahead. And forge other things as well. The difference might be but in form.
And then, to realize that it is not so.
By displacement of certain indicators that supported this previous article of faith. Now 'proved' (smile, smile, smile) to have been erroneous. Pride and potency, why now so dissimilar?
By decreased impotence.
By only advancing age, and by abandonment by formative enablers.
Realization?
To know it was the lucre, the association, the pantheon of myth that all had arranged themselves in dependence with your import.
To be hated by your children for never being there.
To realize.
To 'retire' somewhere coastal. To build your own house. To have a companion (are you cynical, feeble, discardful of emotions, responsabilities, or is it that you have attained great wisdom with age and see that exploit and exploited are simply illusions, why, the sum of all actions is the satisfaction of immediate, selfish, inexplicatble, unjustifiable whims, and don't even try to interject nonsensical "integrity" into the spleen of current rationalisations I am being so considerate as to spell out for you), 16, always 16, without education and with many blood relatives living nearby.
We all help each other.
Keep that knot.
String dissolves in wave and particle.
I'm looking for a conversation.
the boys are looking for a hole. It's not me.
the girls are looking for a husband. It's not me.
Conversation, spark in the eyes, a grin that knows, and something new. Something utterly new.
Not getting it from them, but they're not getting it from each other.
How can they predetermine their options, and limit their options, and be content with something so parched?
Can smile at life. What am I? I am not. I am the buddha.
O
String a string back: are they doing it in pursuit (smile, smile, smile) of identity, security, rote activity?
Where is the security in going back to home, with halfgrown progeny. To undertaking short courses on floristry, jewellery making, to enquiring of friends the prospects for immigrating in Argentina, New Zealand, the Netherlands?
In subsuming into the dualcomposed domestic career-unit, running the enterprise without overt acknowledgement. and stringent demands. Particular demands, and expectations, and finely-honed, specialist skill-sets that, quite frankly darling love, can be ridiculed from allcomers. And will be. Empty air in lands that are not yours. When the question is repeated, "When are you going home?"
And smiling and absorbing the insults under cover of impeccable manners, diplomacy, and the brazen delivery of them, mockery broadcasted to the onlookers.
Embodying the focus for all illthought out, deeply felt, ventable frustrations of inequality. And of viciousness which we shall not mention, see above.
Displaying the veneration of your partner, tu sartorial marker of attainment, ambition, and reward.
You, proxy for all emissions.
You, receptacle.
Another strand: are they doing it in concord with the release of physical tension? Walking dickhead.
As if the world entire was made for the better enjoyment of their dick?
Who indulges another in this, and why?
No stopping to ask. Must forge ahead. And forge other things as well. The difference might be but in form.
And then, to realize that it is not so.
By displacement of certain indicators that supported this previous article of faith. Now 'proved' (smile, smile, smile) to have been erroneous. Pride and potency, why now so dissimilar?
By decreased impotence.
By only advancing age, and by abandonment by formative enablers.
Realization?
To know it was the lucre, the association, the pantheon of myth that all had arranged themselves in dependence with your import.
To be hated by your children for never being there.
To realize.
To 'retire' somewhere coastal. To build your own house. To have a companion (are you cynical, feeble, discardful of emotions, responsabilities, or is it that you have attained great wisdom with age and see that exploit and exploited are simply illusions, why, the sum of all actions is the satisfaction of immediate, selfish, inexplicatble, unjustifiable whims, and don't even try to interject nonsensical "integrity" into the spleen of current rationalisations I am being so considerate as to spell out for you), 16, always 16, without education and with many blood relatives living nearby.
We all help each other.
Keep that knot.
String dissolves in wave and particle.
I'm looking for a conversation.
an instant
Saturday the 19th of May, 2007
I look at the grass. I think, Why?
What the fuck? I think.
My dog died. She ate her puppies. Is there a difference in the effect, the change in her existence as it matters to me, from dying or from doing something that my dog doesn't? There isn't. You see that.
The grass is green. It spreads from the window. There is sweat on the desk. There is sweat on my arms. Also behind my knees. My t-shirt is damp. Being 40 degrees it just feels heavy. It doesn't flap like a cool shirt would in the breeze of an airconditioned room.
There is a lot of homework I'm not doing.
There is a lot of life I'm not living the same as. Next door, they are singing. They are burning what accumulated since the last time they burned stuff. They are leaving all the doors open, so the air can circulate. Our doors are open too.
There is no glass in the windows. A tunnel, voiding between entrances, encourages the channeling of temperature differential. The dogs stay outside, on the concrete, or laying against the fence.
Somebody is cooking. Somebody is shopping. Somebody is inside the back of the washing machine. Somebody is getting ready to have a tantrum. Somebody is driving home. Somebody is delivering the finished soda bottles. Somebody is brushing their hair. It is not me.
I go to find.s
I look at the grass. I think, Why?
What the fuck? I think.
My dog died. She ate her puppies. Is there a difference in the effect, the change in her existence as it matters to me, from dying or from doing something that my dog doesn't? There isn't. You see that.
The grass is green. It spreads from the window. There is sweat on the desk. There is sweat on my arms. Also behind my knees. My t-shirt is damp. Being 40 degrees it just feels heavy. It doesn't flap like a cool shirt would in the breeze of an airconditioned room.
There is a lot of homework I'm not doing.
There is a lot of life I'm not living the same as. Next door, they are singing. They are burning what accumulated since the last time they burned stuff. They are leaving all the doors open, so the air can circulate. Our doors are open too.
There is no glass in the windows. A tunnel, voiding between entrances, encourages the channeling of temperature differential. The dogs stay outside, on the concrete, or laying against the fence.
Somebody is cooking. Somebody is shopping. Somebody is inside the back of the washing machine. Somebody is getting ready to have a tantrum. Somebody is driving home. Somebody is delivering the finished soda bottles. Somebody is brushing their hair. It is not me.
I go to find.s
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
You better be funny
Wednesday, the 25th of April 2007
And then, she said, the other day, when the sky was any kind of smear that I hadn't looked at, because it was above the rise of the 3rd and 5th storeys, and the pall over the streets and dappled sunspots on the pavement were like the smear of a grimy eraser, and the premises behind the doors and the windows purposefully blank, not to take any account of the folded in people walking themselves in the way of the wasp, careful to not burn their fingerprints off on the element hot with life, she said, come and have a drink.
She ordered for us.
She said, it's always ok.
She said, what are you thinking about?
She said, what did you do yesterday?
She said, this drink warms you up from the inside.
She said, nothing stops, everything changes, you're good as you are, breathe.
She said, nobody knows anything.
She said, the universe is very good.
She said make your choices.
She said, a significant proprtion of women do not get married of their own free will.
She said, take that whichever way.
And her teeth flashed.
She asked, are you free to come to the house next weekend?
And then, she said, the other day, when the sky was any kind of smear that I hadn't looked at, because it was above the rise of the 3rd and 5th storeys, and the pall over the streets and dappled sunspots on the pavement were like the smear of a grimy eraser, and the premises behind the doors and the windows purposefully blank, not to take any account of the folded in people walking themselves in the way of the wasp, careful to not burn their fingerprints off on the element hot with life, she said, come and have a drink.
She ordered for us.
She said, it's always ok.
She said, what are you thinking about?
She said, what did you do yesterday?
She said, this drink warms you up from the inside.
She said, nothing stops, everything changes, you're good as you are, breathe.
She said, nobody knows anything.
She said, the universe is very good.
She said make your choices.
She said, a significant proprtion of women do not get married of their own free will.
She said, take that whichever way.
And her teeth flashed.
She asked, are you free to come to the house next weekend?
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
almanaical
Wednesday, the 18th of April, 2007
The province of Typing, consisting, chiefly, of three main villages; Kra Ma, Spel Eung and Sintac, is auspiciously located on the lower bank of a tributary to the Convoluted Narrative, the river that winds its way through the plains of the country.
The decision making power is arranged in harmonious concert with the whole of the governing body, and is titularly held by the organisation of the Premise.
This is a democratic function, however, once installed, the figurehead of State is obliged to serve the duties and responsabilities of the post for life.
These acts and their protagonist are, from the date of their introduction, known simultaneously as the Recurring Motif.
The Recurring Motif may, or may not, be readily apparent, depending on what the Whole Point is.
The Whole Point is where we end up, and, even if we didn't grasp it at the outset, where it all starts from.
Which brings us to the Whole Point.
However, if there is none, the merits and achievements of the corpus vivendi are but simulacra which vacuousness is remedied by the cross-border intervention of Real Life.
Real Life is a humscrum Potentate with may emirs, none of whom make any claim to the equivalence of the status of the Premise.
It's chief value is in making you think things you had never thought before and in its constant manufacture of curious mirrors.
The province of Typing, consisting, chiefly, of three main villages; Kra Ma, Spel Eung and Sintac, is auspiciously located on the lower bank of a tributary to the Convoluted Narrative, the river that winds its way through the plains of the country.
The decision making power is arranged in harmonious concert with the whole of the governing body, and is titularly held by the organisation of the Premise.
This is a democratic function, however, once installed, the figurehead of State is obliged to serve the duties and responsabilities of the post for life.
These acts and their protagonist are, from the date of their introduction, known simultaneously as the Recurring Motif.
The Recurring Motif may, or may not, be readily apparent, depending on what the Whole Point is.
The Whole Point is where we end up, and, even if we didn't grasp it at the outset, where it all starts from.
Which brings us to the Whole Point.
However, if there is none, the merits and achievements of the corpus vivendi are but simulacra which vacuousness is remedied by the cross-border intervention of Real Life.
Real Life is a humscrum Potentate with may emirs, none of whom make any claim to the equivalence of the status of the Premise.
It's chief value is in making you think things you had never thought before and in its constant manufacture of curious mirrors.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
oh my opera
Friday the 23rd of March, 2007
I love 300. It's an opera. I had to return several times. I saw it on a gigantic screen, variously buffered by and creeped out by the small groups dispersed over the cavernous auditorium. Held by the story, knowing that there were girls in the room, from seeing one then 3 then all of them on each return from shaking my head in the corridors to dislodge the roar from the speakers, let some of the paranoid bloodlust pressure off, while periodically refreshing my peripheral bearings. The timbre of the movie had that effect.
Afterwards, I felt incredibly soothed. I still do when considering the visuals, or the rejoinders, or the prominences of the distinct ethos'. I trace this back to the movie.
And I got it, in my heartbeat. I understand having a pure nugget of value on which all choices spring. I understand how the core trumps all vagaries of circumstance.
Even as I appreciate "random".
In one way (and I have jumped without spreading out the inferences, but it is directly connected) it is reflected in a view that belief (or professed belief) in an abstract absolute precludes against the abuses of very living, very temporal, bullies.
I love 300. It's an opera. I had to return several times. I saw it on a gigantic screen, variously buffered by and creeped out by the small groups dispersed over the cavernous auditorium. Held by the story, knowing that there were girls in the room, from seeing one then 3 then all of them on each return from shaking my head in the corridors to dislodge the roar from the speakers, let some of the paranoid bloodlust pressure off, while periodically refreshing my peripheral bearings. The timbre of the movie had that effect.
Afterwards, I felt incredibly soothed. I still do when considering the visuals, or the rejoinders, or the prominences of the distinct ethos'. I trace this back to the movie.
And I got it, in my heartbeat. I understand having a pure nugget of value on which all choices spring. I understand how the core trumps all vagaries of circumstance.
Even as I appreciate "random".
In one way (and I have jumped without spreading out the inferences, but it is directly connected) it is reflected in a view that belief (or professed belief) in an abstract absolute precludes against the abuses of very living, very temporal, bullies.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
come on handshake
Thursday the 21st of March, 2007
You are like light on the water, offsetting the spined bridge there far off in the gaps in the trees.
You are like my finger on the page, each day I blink back at you when we were part of a more inclusive present.
You are the murmurs and ripples that emanate from a historic that you were aware of as an instant.
You see, you don't know what it is you are to people who are not you. Which is everyone.
Maybe you are the upstanding thing that steadies another and so they go on. Which is why being upright, and breathing in the oxygen that being alive keeps you alive, and loving all that is there, is necessary.
Through this enunciation, a braillespeak on your skin, a morse across the clouds, a rhythmic memorefrain, you know you are, in ways you don't know, what you don't know you are.
Always keep faith to the figure in the image developed in your contemporaries roll. It is me as well.
Always be flexible.
It makes me laugh, when, later you are consistent and surprising too.
That you are unexpected and full of integrity.
It confirms.
You are like light on the water, offsetting the spined bridge there far off in the gaps in the trees.
You are like my finger on the page, each day I blink back at you when we were part of a more inclusive present.
You are the murmurs and ripples that emanate from a historic that you were aware of as an instant.
You see, you don't know what it is you are to people who are not you. Which is everyone.
Maybe you are the upstanding thing that steadies another and so they go on. Which is why being upright, and breathing in the oxygen that being alive keeps you alive, and loving all that is there, is necessary.
Through this enunciation, a braillespeak on your skin, a morse across the clouds, a rhythmic memorefrain, you know you are, in ways you don't know, what you don't know you are.
Always keep faith to the figure in the image developed in your contemporaries roll. It is me as well.
Always be flexible.
It makes me laugh, when, later you are consistent and surprising too.
That you are unexpected and full of integrity.
It confirms.
Monday, March 19, 2007
projecting a concrete image.
Riding in a compartment through pollination-active under sun, long grasses and poppy heads, copses, a leaden sky like an eye that has ceased to focus. Writing in this compartment, a gem that is human; and crafted, human, meet conversation summarise the themes, which I am happy to have identified, and propel the plot to a forseen conclusion, for it is an end-game excercise that my words are garnering their fellow syllables to progressively involve.
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