Sunday the first of October, 2006
He draws attention to the news interests, to the state of the world. He reverberates the myths. Enervates the thinking people. Abhors the shoddy veneration that is resurrected to the unconscionable hijinks of previous bands of brothers by historically-grouped and nationally-collective. Uneducted - to give it an apologetic, possibly useful in today's climate - or the descendents, those vesting their beneficence in the continuing hallowing of certain tilts of human relationships under the name of "tradition".
His subjects are not funny. His technique is comic. His command is inspired, deft, clinical.
A warrior holding a falcon on the back of a fierce winged cat.
If you can do nothing but laugh at the funny presentation, then pay for the laughs. The revenue will go to alleviate the conditions, in the long run. As the jokes, themselves, are not funny. At present, the stream will continue the research, production and performance of readjusting the main-frame of a population less-aware of their comparative relevance than they are of the diminishing effect of their marginality as exotic.
The roman alphabet is exotic in form but who cares what it says. Semiotically irrelevant.
Irreverently semiotic.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
swaying in the breeze
Sunday, the 17th of September
A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.
Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...
A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.
Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
spatially elastic
Sunday, the 10th of September, 2006
Unless you've taken a trip to somewhere unpronounceable - even if it's extended - with full intentions to come back, you have never seen anything as colossal as this palace we saw out the back of the tourbus windows, as palatial as the colusseum we skirted on our way through the forest-scented pines barricading the rocky inlet after spending the morning at an exquisitely appointed mausoleum.
Unless you've taken a trip to somewhere unpronounceable - even if it's extended - with full intentions to come back, you have never seen anything as colossal as this palace we saw out the back of the tourbus windows, as palatial as the colusseum we skirted on our way through the forest-scented pines barricading the rocky inlet after spending the morning at an exquisitely appointed mausoleum.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
the span of sound
Tuesday, the 5th of September, 2006
It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.
It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.
Friday, September 01, 2006
aria
Saturday, September the 2nd, 2006
To hear Pedro tell it, I'm a beautiful beast, with a sleek sleek coat and beautiful feet.
Pedro is a liar at the best of times and in the present mayhem, put it down to verbal hyperbole of the fantasist stripe.
These days are fast approaching from the left and from the right, they suddenly arrived and replaced the shapeless night, making lenses that picked up on what was previously unclear, and sounding out vibrations of normally inaudible frequencies.
It's the days , it's the days, and the time containing meanings. It's the moments, and in the moments, in the panic that ensues, I think Pedro's having visions, seeing things that are not there, being kissed by the poetry bruising the air.
To hear Pedro tell it, I'm a beautiful beast, with a sleek sleek coat and beautiful feet.
Pedro is a liar at the best of times and in the present mayhem, put it down to verbal hyperbole of the fantasist stripe.
These days are fast approaching from the left and from the right, they suddenly arrived and replaced the shapeless night, making lenses that picked up on what was previously unclear, and sounding out vibrations of normally inaudible frequencies.
It's the days , it's the days, and the time containing meanings. It's the moments, and in the moments, in the panic that ensues, I think Pedro's having visions, seeing things that are not there, being kissed by the poetry bruising the air.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Chernobl has deviated production of chlorophyll
Saturday the 15th of July, 2006
The direction of the path was out. From St. David, Portuguese Foundation, Canterbury quad. The noise sent people quicker in their destination. The buzzing in the sky swept the open spaces clear of the students and visitors under the trees they went and in through the doors..
Helicopters appeared, looking rectangular and cardboard. They flew making right-angles until they were in position. A group formation with a purpose. Uniformed figures approached from behind distant buildings.
A ladder hung toward the earth.
I went inside. I passed heavy red curtains into an annexe with a couple of sofettes in an L against the corner on the right. I pulled the opposite one, so that a triangle space could accommodate, but this was not a hiding place. It was not a hiding time. The guard came in and flicked a finger at me - tallying the collateral of his purview.
I walked into the seated assembly of others in the foyer.
There was a smell of premature stale sweat, of fear that was swirling in currents of minimizing and encouraging. No one knew what was going on. No one wanted to provoke a scenario that was inevitable. No one wanted to venture a query, to presume and be wrong.
It was cold. My heart beat. To stop my eyes from getting small, I thought ahead. I saw the lieutenant.
"Did you come in the helicopters?" He smiled because I could be killed now or later.
"Are they yours?" "Yes. I am captain."
"They are awe-inspiring." "They are far beyond anything that came before. There is nothing to touch them."
"The noise they make, that knocks everything out, how can they make that effect?" "We can go everywhere."
I didn't suggest anything more, and watched to see it unfold.
The direction of the path was out. From St. David, Portuguese Foundation, Canterbury quad. The noise sent people quicker in their destination. The buzzing in the sky swept the open spaces clear of the students and visitors under the trees they went and in through the doors..
Helicopters appeared, looking rectangular and cardboard. They flew making right-angles until they were in position. A group formation with a purpose. Uniformed figures approached from behind distant buildings.
A ladder hung toward the earth.
I went inside. I passed heavy red curtains into an annexe with a couple of sofettes in an L against the corner on the right. I pulled the opposite one, so that a triangle space could accommodate, but this was not a hiding place. It was not a hiding time. The guard came in and flicked a finger at me - tallying the collateral of his purview.
I walked into the seated assembly of others in the foyer.
There was a smell of premature stale sweat, of fear that was swirling in currents of minimizing and encouraging. No one knew what was going on. No one wanted to provoke a scenario that was inevitable. No one wanted to venture a query, to presume and be wrong.
It was cold. My heart beat. To stop my eyes from getting small, I thought ahead. I saw the lieutenant.
"Did you come in the helicopters?" He smiled because I could be killed now or later.
"Are they yours?" "Yes. I am captain."
"They are awe-inspiring." "They are far beyond anything that came before. There is nothing to touch them."
"The noise they make, that knocks everything out, how can they make that effect?" "We can go everywhere."
I didn't suggest anything more, and watched to see it unfold.
Monday, July 03, 2006
At times I feel like a witness to the trials of those in a routine and indignity that each urban morning wakes them up to. And what use am I?
Monday the third of July, 2006
I could be otherwise engaged.
As if I should be doing something else.
With the time. With my skills.
To my potential.
As per instructions. For a higher cause. In case I was mistaken. If my efforts were futile.
If my efforts were inconsequential because I had missed, misinterpreted or forgone the pertinent signals.
A fear that by every step I invalidated myself
- rephrase -
A possibility entertained in all spheres of my activity that I invalidated the conditions upon which I was understood previously.
As if I was consigned to make and remake the doorway through which I entered to start my whole life.
As if my life was excluded - by my own actions, my own lack of a grasp, a tentative grasp, on the codes of relevance - from wholeness.
As if I raked into a farfelu semblance, the approach to wholeness.
Then I think, grow up, this is where you are and you're enjoying the rich stability
the stimulus
the opportunity
the perpetuum mobile
of this era.
And part of me wonders how long to give it, or to pick up and move on.
But what it am I thinking of?
There is no it, except the wonderful, opportune opportunity that happens in the course of my travels, where I'm supposed to be absorbed in immersion and discovery.
It's a stay/go consideration.
And dealing with the things I find.
Dealing with what's there when it's there.
I could be otherwise engaged.
As if I should be doing something else.
With the time. With my skills.
To my potential.
As per instructions. For a higher cause. In case I was mistaken. If my efforts were futile.
If my efforts were inconsequential because I had missed, misinterpreted or forgone the pertinent signals.
A fear that by every step I invalidated myself
- rephrase -
A possibility entertained in all spheres of my activity that I invalidated the conditions upon which I was understood previously.
As if I was consigned to make and remake the doorway through which I entered to start my whole life.
As if my life was excluded - by my own actions, my own lack of a grasp, a tentative grasp, on the codes of relevance - from wholeness.
As if I raked into a farfelu semblance, the approach to wholeness.
Then I think, grow up, this is where you are and you're enjoying the rich stability
the stimulus
the opportunity
the perpetuum mobile
of this era.
And part of me wonders how long to give it, or to pick up and move on.
But what it am I thinking of?
There is no it, except the wonderful, opportune opportunity that happens in the course of my travels, where I'm supposed to be absorbed in immersion and discovery.
It's a stay/go consideration.
And dealing with the things I find.
Dealing with what's there when it's there.
Friday, May 12, 2006
a story
Friday the twelfth of May, 2006
It was a long high afternoon on the goat plain. Imported goats from the hills of the Camargue and the indiginous breeds. Grass itched at the collar of the herder. Soft fleece collar, a deep blue that was moistureguarded by some spray from Switzerland over the natural resistance of karakul suede. This was a million times better than being in a polluted, humanly overbuilt, seething morass of commerce. This was where he was actually seeing. This had no culture, in the gilded sense of a historical discipline. Not in the sense of a national company. Not in the sense of a system of trust and foundation. In the twisted strands of antique money.
This had at it's core, him. His soul. Himself, which he was coming to realise was not a nothing. He was capable of generating psychic sense. A fear had not been realised that he was of no substance. He was more than an acceptance that he looked inwards and dissolved under an inability to merit focus. What a rejoicing sentiment came over him, when he realised that he was vibrant, that he blossomed under scrutiny.
Fuck was he happy to be here. The day was washed in triumph, that he had got a plane ticket and train ticket and taxi and coffee at the side of the road before heading into the horizon that ate the highway. That he had put his money to work. That he hadn't touched money - that old finger-worn, pocket-secreted supply-chain that constituted his fellow citizens closest of relationships - in all of the time he had since had time to lose track of.
That here and now he had no cause to justify himself to anyone. Had no doubts, and no expectations, beyond that the pasture and the yield of the herd would be sufficient to see what would happen next. Barring attack. Intruders in the night. And pissing off the neighbours.
And neccessitating bureaucracy by invitation only.
It was a long high afternoon on the goat plain. Imported goats from the hills of the Camargue and the indiginous breeds. Grass itched at the collar of the herder. Soft fleece collar, a deep blue that was moistureguarded by some spray from Switzerland over the natural resistance of karakul suede. This was a million times better than being in a polluted, humanly overbuilt, seething morass of commerce. This was where he was actually seeing. This had no culture, in the gilded sense of a historical discipline. Not in the sense of a national company. Not in the sense of a system of trust and foundation. In the twisted strands of antique money.
This had at it's core, him. His soul. Himself, which he was coming to realise was not a nothing. He was capable of generating psychic sense. A fear had not been realised that he was of no substance. He was more than an acceptance that he looked inwards and dissolved under an inability to merit focus. What a rejoicing sentiment came over him, when he realised that he was vibrant, that he blossomed under scrutiny.
Fuck was he happy to be here. The day was washed in triumph, that he had got a plane ticket and train ticket and taxi and coffee at the side of the road before heading into the horizon that ate the highway. That he had put his money to work. That he hadn't touched money - that old finger-worn, pocket-secreted supply-chain that constituted his fellow citizens closest of relationships - in all of the time he had since had time to lose track of.
That here and now he had no cause to justify himself to anyone. Had no doubts, and no expectations, beyond that the pasture and the yield of the herd would be sufficient to see what would happen next. Barring attack. Intruders in the night. And pissing off the neighbours.
And neccessitating bureaucracy by invitation only.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
exhale exalting
Wednesday the 10th of May, 2006
for freedom
for the desire to accept the moment
for the voices of all those who are most dear to me
reinvigorating my spirits, making me laugh, lights among lights
for the opportunities taken to add to the good when others ask
for the stillness
for faith
for constant flux
for not understanding
for stopping
for the long days at sea, when you feel inutile, and the period interminable, that once on land you long for as the time when you were engaged, and useful and effective
for discernment and scorn when it comes to "make work"
for giving myself dignity and extending my understanding of vulnerablity to the point of view of others
for taking it easy
for laughing
for freedom
for the desire to accept the moment
for the voices of all those who are most dear to me
reinvigorating my spirits, making me laugh, lights among lights
for the opportunities taken to add to the good when others ask
for the stillness
for faith
for constant flux
for not understanding
for stopping
for the long days at sea, when you feel inutile, and the period interminable, that once on land you long for as the time when you were engaged, and useful and effective
for discernment and scorn when it comes to "make work"
for giving myself dignity and extending my understanding of vulnerablity to the point of view of others
for taking it easy
for laughing
Saturday, May 06, 2006
they were together
Friday the 5th of May, 2006
They were on the sort of date where they tell each other irrefutable facts about life.
They may or may not forgo the movie.
They were on the sort of date where they view their daughter and approximate companionship through the glow of sharing an infant.
They were on the sort of date where neither dressed up, they both watch the tv shorts with interjected prolongversation and he forgets to eat so it's a slow hang and then she toucjes his eyebrow and indicates a line running across his forhead and he twitches his legs from his toes then they turn back to the tv, talking.
They are on the sort of date where they alternate who is buying the next snack and one goes to the bathroom for as long as it takes the other to answer their phone.
They were on the sort of date where they tell each other irrefutable facts about life.
They may or may not forgo the movie.
They were on the sort of date where they view their daughter and approximate companionship through the glow of sharing an infant.
They were on the sort of date where neither dressed up, they both watch the tv shorts with interjected prolongversation and he forgets to eat so it's a slow hang and then she toucjes his eyebrow and indicates a line running across his forhead and he twitches his legs from his toes then they turn back to the tv, talking.
They are on the sort of date where they alternate who is buying the next snack and one goes to the bathroom for as long as it takes the other to answer their phone.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
immediate
Wednesday the twenty second of March, 2006
I like travelling - to see infirm people & on occasion, mad ones. Seeing how their compatriots treat them is generally how I form opinions about all sorts of things about foreignness.
There are quite a few instances of infirmity around the place; sort of exacerbations of social vulnerability, unwashed or overscrubbed, louse ridden, painfully shy, aggressive and wary - hey, I guess that's what inequality means - unforgiving, unheeded people.
They offer nothing that is wanted by the robust individuals of functioning units and yet ignoring them does not diminish them. It has an obverse effect, it diminishes the sum total of the particular societies value. To itself and that's the funniest thing. It's as ever present an evocation of what's "real" in a place as the filthy railway box I'm alive in.
The mad are another matter. These angry birds who have yet to form a coalition, who, (in the whole wide world and throughout millennia), are the most highly cohesive amalgam to combine penetrating thought, exemplary existential investigation with persistant voice.
Mad people are international. Mad people are very scary when they try to be friendly. Mad people are not affected to an overwhelming extent by, for example, their circumstances. This sets them apart from the infirm, whose existence, (and experience of their existence), is in large part, a product of their surroundings.
Mad people are relatively untouched by the normalcy which surrounds them - invarious forms, regional & national. But they are not unhinged, they are plugged in to some "higher", more insistant reality which is pressing on them. Thus, mad people are not placeless, and I like watching them, when I find one, watching those around them navigate around each other and doing their best to provide guidance.
I like travelling - to see infirm people & on occasion, mad ones. Seeing how their compatriots treat them is generally how I form opinions about all sorts of things about foreignness.
There are quite a few instances of infirmity around the place; sort of exacerbations of social vulnerability, unwashed or overscrubbed, louse ridden, painfully shy, aggressive and wary - hey, I guess that's what inequality means - unforgiving, unheeded people.
They offer nothing that is wanted by the robust individuals of functioning units and yet ignoring them does not diminish them. It has an obverse effect, it diminishes the sum total of the particular societies value. To itself and that's the funniest thing. It's as ever present an evocation of what's "real" in a place as the filthy railway box I'm alive in.
The mad are another matter. These angry birds who have yet to form a coalition, who, (in the whole wide world and throughout millennia), are the most highly cohesive amalgam to combine penetrating thought, exemplary existential investigation with persistant voice.
Mad people are international. Mad people are very scary when they try to be friendly. Mad people are not affected to an overwhelming extent by, for example, their circumstances. This sets them apart from the infirm, whose existence, (and experience of their existence), is in large part, a product of their surroundings.
Mad people are relatively untouched by the normalcy which surrounds them - invarious forms, regional & national. But they are not unhinged, they are plugged in to some "higher", more insistant reality which is pressing on them. Thus, mad people are not placeless, and I like watching them, when I find one, watching those around them navigate around each other and doing their best to provide guidance.
Monday, March 20, 2006
everybody looked fulfilled
Tuesday the twenty first of March, 2006
The most striking examples of the city's character stemmed from the serene complacency of all those wearing the funny items.
Pristine lines of sculptured bikes, that, as they transversed the metropolis, reflected the hypodermic rays of morning light and played on my eyes like a symphony of silences whose intentions were to spread whimsy and a practicality associated with Finnish housemothers who provide tomato sandwiches for break.
Footwear with philosophical ramifications. Made with materials that referenced the past of other peoples. Molded with total appreciation of the pedal ligaments or with total disregard for the anatomical alignment of either foot.
People who wore their uniforms to the letter and people who wore the emblems of occupations they did not pursue, to the letter, were winking at me, saying that this was their city that I was in, and that this was them.
The peace and electricity hummed along nicely, while I spent the time looking into the eyes of the place and saw openness and curiousity, which was what was looking back at me.
I very much liked this place for it's expressiveness, for it's lightness and steadfastness. Everybody looked fulfilled.
The most striking examples of the city's character stemmed from the serene complacency of all those wearing the funny items.
Pristine lines of sculptured bikes, that, as they transversed the metropolis, reflected the hypodermic rays of morning light and played on my eyes like a symphony of silences whose intentions were to spread whimsy and a practicality associated with Finnish housemothers who provide tomato sandwiches for break.
Footwear with philosophical ramifications. Made with materials that referenced the past of other peoples. Molded with total appreciation of the pedal ligaments or with total disregard for the anatomical alignment of either foot.
People who wore their uniforms to the letter and people who wore the emblems of occupations they did not pursue, to the letter, were winking at me, saying that this was their city that I was in, and that this was them.
The peace and electricity hummed along nicely, while I spent the time looking into the eyes of the place and saw openness and curiousity, which was what was looking back at me.
I very much liked this place for it's expressiveness, for it's lightness and steadfastness. Everybody looked fulfilled.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
shabat
Sunday February 12th, 2006
there is no sun in the night, as a statement of fact and no definable importance, other than that it is an empiric observation that could be suggested as a necessary condition for the purposes of describing "not day".
we are all creatures of the mind, said the little one, interjecting another thought into the handful that had words attached, an opposable thumb, a whimsical thought that was strong enough to divert what you minded, strong enough to return to for giggles.
Sometimes I am ridiculously happy and calm, and things seem secondary to my experiencing them. And at others, it's as though my tail is easier to chase than attempting to ride through the multiple situations that various groupings of people are lassoing me with based on my position among them. Baseless, shifting sands, hello tail, and neurotica, and self-assuming the qualities that I feel from outside myself.
I feel (totally subjective, could be my madness - there I go again) unloved - ergo I say: I am unlovable. I feel taken for granted - I say: I give too easily for this situation, I misjudged. I feel out of the loop - I say: I am insufficiently social.
And it's not true.
I'm telling you now, it's absolutely indupitably contrary to how things are.
So I reassure myself, put my vocabulary back on fair and square (no sliding, inferences, warping for trauma).
And where does that leave me, undermining my own naive enjoyment of all my friends, coworkers, and family?
It's impossible to tell everybody everything. And why would you?
But still it's impossible, and the gaps make it hard to navigate. How to know in advance what is relevant. And how it changes. The trajectory is one thing, the curvature of the arc determines that the points of intersection will be significantly different. That's significant, little one.
We are all creatures of the mind.
Sometimes I feel the equilibrium that comes, like it did today, from all of us acting out of our own initiatives, small gestures that addeed up together, quiet consideration, a low-key syncronised comfort, because I am leaving and it somehow takes the pressure off, to have an end-date, and the moments were appreciated, as they came and flowed into others.
I appreciate the people who got in a taxi and made the trip, who dressed for the occasion, who provided surprises, who extended themselves only as far as, who asked for what they needed, who made new jokes, included the new people, and told new stories, who behaved as one should when it's goodbye but not really good bye.
The new ones displayed evidence of their idiosyncracies about food, responsability, social silence. That was funny. And the old ones, we know what ours are.
"Come with me, come with me", said the night. "Leave the dark to itself." And he ground my hand to dust.
there is no sun in the night, as a statement of fact and no definable importance, other than that it is an empiric observation that could be suggested as a necessary condition for the purposes of describing "not day".
we are all creatures of the mind, said the little one, interjecting another thought into the handful that had words attached, an opposable thumb, a whimsical thought that was strong enough to divert what you minded, strong enough to return to for giggles.
Sometimes I am ridiculously happy and calm, and things seem secondary to my experiencing them. And at others, it's as though my tail is easier to chase than attempting to ride through the multiple situations that various groupings of people are lassoing me with based on my position among them. Baseless, shifting sands, hello tail, and neurotica, and self-assuming the qualities that I feel from outside myself.
I feel (totally subjective, could be my madness - there I go again) unloved - ergo I say: I am unlovable. I feel taken for granted - I say: I give too easily for this situation, I misjudged. I feel out of the loop - I say: I am insufficiently social.
And it's not true.
I'm telling you now, it's absolutely indupitably contrary to how things are.
So I reassure myself, put my vocabulary back on fair and square (no sliding, inferences, warping for trauma).
And where does that leave me, undermining my own naive enjoyment of all my friends, coworkers, and family?
It's impossible to tell everybody everything. And why would you?
But still it's impossible, and the gaps make it hard to navigate. How to know in advance what is relevant. And how it changes. The trajectory is one thing, the curvature of the arc determines that the points of intersection will be significantly different. That's significant, little one.
We are all creatures of the mind.
Sometimes I feel the equilibrium that comes, like it did today, from all of us acting out of our own initiatives, small gestures that addeed up together, quiet consideration, a low-key syncronised comfort, because I am leaving and it somehow takes the pressure off, to have an end-date, and the moments were appreciated, as they came and flowed into others.
I appreciate the people who got in a taxi and made the trip, who dressed for the occasion, who provided surprises, who extended themselves only as far as, who asked for what they needed, who made new jokes, included the new people, and told new stories, who behaved as one should when it's goodbye but not really good bye.
The new ones displayed evidence of their idiosyncracies about food, responsability, social silence. That was funny. And the old ones, we know what ours are.
"Come with me, come with me", said the night. "Leave the dark to itself." And he ground my hand to dust.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Choix de Vivre
Saturday 21st January 2006
Striding the asphalt of the avenue, a madness not of his choosing took hold of him. He parsed beneath the tree branches, jacarandas all of them.
He could not find his comfort in the company of anyone he knew. There was a restless pause between his emotions these few weeks and what his friends offered in their interactions. He knew he existed apart from the relationships he had. And had had, although, they weren't dead or invisible or irrelevant, they were before and elusive, and they were still just as accessible as the relationships he was in now.
He wasn't disappointed, not even close. He always dove in, fully present, unaware of asking for anything other than what the others were extending, and madder than hell when at those times people shied away, asking for a prenup before a simple smile. A precursor. A guarantee of fidelity and for the other person - him - to extend an indicator of trust. Things he would never percieve at the start of startings, smiling and such. Saying hello, making eyecontact. Giving a lift. Asking what he could do, far over how he could help.
Was it bending over backwards? Hardly.
Or was it?
Did they look and think, that man tries, and laugh?
Not his question. Not his concern. It was a disservice to his understanding of humanity to single out the gladhanders.
But damn, the cheek, the gall and the presumption of the semiretards who withhold their potential for fulfillment. Who refuse to say yes.
They scared or what?
Fear from where? He, this man under the jacarandas, did not know of a fear that would cripple so mindlessly and needlessly. He hated it.
By not comprehending it, it didn't really occur to him in any clear sense.
He could not attack it and have done with it. He still wanted to be friends with the world, but not the ones who turned their heads to the walls, who looked down and practised being shy. Who snubbed and deprecated, according to conventions that brought them a diminished account of being alive and in their bodies. He was persistently disturbed by the unsatisfactory restricted prescriptive silence.
I choose, he said. I choose.
Striding the asphalt of the avenue, a madness not of his choosing took hold of him. He parsed beneath the tree branches, jacarandas all of them.
He could not find his comfort in the company of anyone he knew. There was a restless pause between his emotions these few weeks and what his friends offered in their interactions. He knew he existed apart from the relationships he had. And had had, although, they weren't dead or invisible or irrelevant, they were before and elusive, and they were still just as accessible as the relationships he was in now.
He wasn't disappointed, not even close. He always dove in, fully present, unaware of asking for anything other than what the others were extending, and madder than hell when at those times people shied away, asking for a prenup before a simple smile. A precursor. A guarantee of fidelity and for the other person - him - to extend an indicator of trust. Things he would never percieve at the start of startings, smiling and such. Saying hello, making eyecontact. Giving a lift. Asking what he could do, far over how he could help.
Was it bending over backwards? Hardly.
Or was it?
Did they look and think, that man tries, and laugh?
Not his question. Not his concern. It was a disservice to his understanding of humanity to single out the gladhanders.
But damn, the cheek, the gall and the presumption of the semiretards who withhold their potential for fulfillment. Who refuse to say yes.
They scared or what?
Fear from where? He, this man under the jacarandas, did not know of a fear that would cripple so mindlessly and needlessly. He hated it.
By not comprehending it, it didn't really occur to him in any clear sense.
He could not attack it and have done with it. He still wanted to be friends with the world, but not the ones who turned their heads to the walls, who looked down and practised being shy. Who snubbed and deprecated, according to conventions that brought them a diminished account of being alive and in their bodies. He was persistently disturbed by the unsatisfactory restricted prescriptive silence.
I choose, he said. I choose.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Supplying your own demands
Thursday January 19th, 2006
Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.
Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.
I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.
Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.
Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.
I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
and now, about the other one
Sunday the eighth of January, 2006
The creases alternated between shadowing her face with the whispers of memories previous - Things that were even memories in the time before we met - and revealing another face to be included in all the other faces her face had to reveal. She had lived a long time. She had lived a lot in the time she had begun to count. She had more living accumulated in her features than one life could reveal, and she was revealed as wondrous and never-ending as time itself; she occupied the present in such intensity that it was matched and kept constant only in her abdication of any contemporary ties, that balanced the immediacy of her presence with an absoluteness that bespoke her longevity and her connection to the things I recognised as having meaning.
She was a human, breathing scales of eternity as far as it could find scope in the experience of a homosapiens of no broadcasted reknown.
How do we come to know these ones when we come across them? I neither know this or many other questions, similar and disparate.
About the treatment of time on her face, from careful, undisturbed glances on her skin as her mind is occupied with conversation, arithmetic, joke sharing, arranging food, preparing the properties of comfort for another person, the refining process that it has enacted is peerless. She is both here and wholly, not-enough for the present.
I don't think that the world is enough for her. She is certainly meet for the world. She has accompanied it in faith, long enough, and will continue to do so in the future that is not a guarantee.
The creases alternated between shadowing her face with the whispers of memories previous - Things that were even memories in the time before we met - and revealing another face to be included in all the other faces her face had to reveal. She had lived a long time. She had lived a lot in the time she had begun to count. She had more living accumulated in her features than one life could reveal, and she was revealed as wondrous and never-ending as time itself; she occupied the present in such intensity that it was matched and kept constant only in her abdication of any contemporary ties, that balanced the immediacy of her presence with an absoluteness that bespoke her longevity and her connection to the things I recognised as having meaning.
She was a human, breathing scales of eternity as far as it could find scope in the experience of a homosapiens of no broadcasted reknown.
How do we come to know these ones when we come across them? I neither know this or many other questions, similar and disparate.
About the treatment of time on her face, from careful, undisturbed glances on her skin as her mind is occupied with conversation, arithmetic, joke sharing, arranging food, preparing the properties of comfort for another person, the refining process that it has enacted is peerless. She is both here and wholly, not-enough for the present.
I don't think that the world is enough for her. She is certainly meet for the world. She has accompanied it in faith, long enough, and will continue to do so in the future that is not a guarantee.
Friday, December 30, 2005
The present moment
December 31st, Saturday, 2006
We are taking forever.
"Before. That was a memory, all memories being a linguistically-fuelled device used to (that we use to) refashion the present."
"Our present."
"Ours, yes. We make a before to buffer an awareness of a 'now' and to give ourselves space to breathe an 'us'"
"Oh
they did say "oh"
" community."
Quite prayerful. Amused, uncomprehending, scornful and bargaining. As I beseach you....I wish they had said " beseach you" but they didn't. Perhaps it will come to pass in future memory this phrase, with this invocation.
When we come together, it has the strands of the moment's impulses, the ways we accommodate each other, a historicism that we both seek out; and so it feels like we invoke a drawing out of something that is both independant and fundamental. We do do that, and the effect of so doing is felt by me.
"Community."
We are taking forever.
"Before. That was a memory, all memories being a linguistically-fuelled device used to (that we use to) refashion the present."
"Our present."
"Ours, yes. We make a before to buffer an awareness of a 'now' and to give ourselves space to breathe an 'us'"
"Oh
they did say "oh"
" community."
Quite prayerful. Amused, uncomprehending, scornful and bargaining. As I beseach you....I wish they had said " beseach you" but they didn't. Perhaps it will come to pass in future memory this phrase, with this invocation.
When we come together, it has the strands of the moment's impulses, the ways we accommodate each other, a historicism that we both seek out; and so it feels like we invoke a drawing out of something that is both independant and fundamental. We do do that, and the effect of so doing is felt by me.
"Community."
Sunday, November 13, 2005
echoes in sand
Sunday the 13th of November, 2005
She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.
She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Several cameras
Wednesday the ninth of November, 2005
What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I'm boring like that. I don't rise to your expectations. And I'm flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don't get and didn't see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren't who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I'm looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you're with me, I'm looking away when we're together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That's how we know each other.
Together let's go on an expedition. We'll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.
What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I'm boring like that. I don't rise to your expectations. And I'm flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don't get and didn't see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren't who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I'm looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you're with me, I'm looking away when we're together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That's how we know each other.
Together let's go on an expedition. We'll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Worn through
Saturday, the 4th of November
Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.
Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.
Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.
Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)