Fleeing, flying, forgetting again, knots less tangled this time, another history created archived and escaped from.
Ailment rattled this mortality, it extended its bony hand to mine and we danced. We danced the dance of the needy lover in desperate blue with the one he can never know. The one that needs him more than he needs her, the one that heals from the inside out when released from the neurotic counter production designed malfunction, without which nothing would survive.
The ailment becomes a perfect distraction an acute tangent on which to fly a kite in the storm filled sky.
The clouds shroud and dull the hurt; they force perspective and obliterate ambition.
They loosen the nuts on the wheels of the cars that wobble down the motorway dangerously fast, hurtling to their moment.
They become the pillow that comforts that weary head.
They become a truth, a benchmark from which to re-spring the trap…
The conspiracy became more than a rumor. It became more than an ink mark spattered on the paper. The vision is alive. Growing like a well-fed baby, growing like a vivid imagination, fertile, determined, absolute obsession displacing and replacing the old dream with the new nightmare.
The bats took to the skies.
They battered down the doors.
They took out the windows.
They flew so close to the skin.
There was a moment of calmness, that theta meditation infinitesimal moment. It mocked all other existence, it laughed at the stupidity of the craving for isolation, at the need for desolation.
The moment came first amongst a flurry of musical notes that had finally, after years of searching found a pattern that flowed to become a flower that bloomed and died, awaiting its resurrection.
The next visit came through acute pain, the pain that eats the patience, that nagging drip of acid on the lung.
The throbbing perversion that dictates that fragile balance between joy and misery ever the hope for a quick release.
Through pain comes the necessity to heal, to discard the drugs and identify the cause and have faith in the self’s desire to attain Nirvana, to be all it can be above and beyond the call of duty or malevolent dignity.
So this vision of civility we have built here uses pain as the needle with which to discern quality of life, the graphical subversion created to fool the self-healer that its work here is done. Created to milk the bulging postulating udders until they whither and dry of sense, concern and possibility with a probability pre determined by the mundane anti psychotic existence.
There was a beautiful girl in this story, she obeyed the rules, she took the pills, and she suffered the shock of the anodes taped to her temples.
Now she ambles a staggering amble, dragging her feet behind her in an impossible gait. She is walking up the steep hill all of the time.
Her eyes are of a rabbits, terrified at the sound of the snap of a twig, terrified of the sound of the distant voice calling her name, echo’s of concern for how deep she had travelled down the cochleaic tunnel that led to the last remaining piece of her pre obedient self, of the baby clinging to the hems of her imaginary mothers skirt.
He wanted to hurt someone, to take blood from the hunger-less, to re-inject it into the vein of the bloodless. Disease and infection irrelevant, it was the act that would create the appeasement, I told him to work it out peacefully, I know he heard… I hope he listens.
So I sit on this rock by the sea in the cove. A sailing boat cuts the horizon. The murky waters wash up their slop at my feet trying to intimidate me like the school bully. The rocks loom with their primate silhouette their chins in an impressive firework spray display.
The empty minds watch agog, they mistake replication for perfection, ignorance for perception and a scowling grunt for communication.
They like to say hello, the jovial notation of the conspiracies eyebrow smile, the resemblance the attrition the mother of the monster born on the run, on the run from its own violent selfish self.
They fall silent when walking past me
They fear being overheard and then betrayed.
When there is no definition of black or white, the imagination can visit the far-flung places of unlikely potentials with a freedom other wise curtailed by prejudice. This is essential honesty, so easily distracted from its own eventuality by being fed burgers and beads to buy compliancy…
Even this, particularly this is just another swing on the pendulum, another beautiful distraction.
Just as you are a beautiful distraction, one in my dreams vibrational sister Welcome to another beat of the slave, another slap of the wave
So recent a tangential trip can knock the ship of course for a six.
Can mutiny the crew and scupper the show…
Oh to scupper the show just now and to dance the nimble dance of spring.
So in past reflection, after just a walk over the bridge the story fades from green to brown to dust.
You with your diplomatic ties, your needles feigning love, with your symbolic gestures and quivering soul all a tension all alert.
Maybe it is repulsion to the attraction of the one you want, the one you can never touch but will try in any way you can, I will let you in all you desire.
The story flows like a river, never stopping but to idle in a catchment pool for a while, never stopping but to reflect the suns shard of information back to the eyes of the beholder for a millisecond of understanding.
So onward she flows as she should seeking the only path to draw her closer to her destination from the lowest point to the highest, undulating and vibrating the lone neuron travelling far from its home unwittingly sacrificing itself to become a part of the reason.
The freedom of birth spirals out through control sequences set, determined on its Omni directional course.
I wear my tattoos as proud as anyone. Mine are home made, hand knitted; they cover my body and drown my psyche if I let them. They are invisible to the naked eye but if you hold my hands and close your eyes, you may see.
We sit peacefully waiting for the spring to turn to summer, waiting for the people to pass. Their silence magnified by the mountains.
Eden is alive but the river is drying. All passed as must I, up the mountain path to the sanctuary of Her family, up the cobbled stones lit by the orange dregs of the late evening sun.
Today the bridge serves its purpose, tomorrow the river will dry and the bridge will stand high and mighty in its puritanical weakness.
Is there enough of me in here, should I externalize more or would I be re-running the old films, re-playing the old records, re-reflecting the same scene back to the viewer. Each time the same but at the same time each fractal different, each perception borrowed from another news story. So repetition is growth, for nothing is a perfect repetition.
Our self is of fragile persuasion tugged this way and that like a kite in the evening sky, the line the tenuous connection to the transcendental being. The kite is the darting dodging self, collecting information and experience, desperate to not have its line cut and be left cast to drift in abandonment with the only surety being to crash to the unknown below or to extend the line to the unknown above, to catch the vacuumed atmosphere and to reach infinity, line long gone, possessions given away, ballast thrown, emotional connections severed suffocated and forgotten.
I feel as though I am caught between the two places, sandwiched between life and death like a piece of fresh tomato and cheese. Not so quick to want to leave but sure that a wonderful journey is looming in the not so distant future….
And so she ran dry, I crossed her ford with ease, with no fear of being swept away by the torrent of yesterday. Slaved to the sun the last pools wither to nothing, their inhabitant’s short joy now joins the great oblivion.
I wanted to swim, I really did. I wanted to join those of the revolution, those of the great revulsion that mock the difference with their youthful eternity, years not yet bitten the chunks out of yesterdays dreams. I wanted to float with the tide, the gentle tug of the waves converting the abhorrence to a smile, a shield with armor and sword given by one that knew it to be of use… I did not take it. She did not smell right. She did not taste pleasant. The oily film on her skin turned me off so I climbed back out on to the rocks to write…
I crossed the bridge again, lost in my own exploring, needy little world, searching for company to pat this wee little boy on the head and tell him all is well… he sleeps now.
Our history predicts our future, the math’s has been done and the graphs have been plotted. The race is on… except there is no race.
The math’s and graphs are correct, the inevitability looms and the singularity draws near.
How the mighty have fallen before. Though they fell their remnants remain, proving the mighty can fall again.
And what of my own personal self-destruct suicide mission attitude. I know so many people with the nihilistic belief system, every drinker smoker and addict.
If our stories are so closely written, is that not part of our genome? Are we not just obeying the creator that wrote our function and just as any great production designer will testify of the requirement for obsoleting, the hundred thousand mile mark, the fifteen thousand pieces of burnt toast or the stretch marks on the stomach of our over productive Mother.
Is it with sadness, joy or attrition that we approach these finalizing decades of what we once knew and who we once were? Is it with the boiling frog oblivion or the flayed hide of the monk who took the destruction as his own personal fault?
Shall we drink the hemlock and sacrifice our own consumption for those that wouldn’t care? But we love them so anyway.
Now the sputum has been spat, what is left to discuss. At the end of each day, if what needed to be achieved has. If peace and laughter prevail and hunger is just a memory and tomorrow can be planned for with joy… Then the race has been won.
I must admit that at this juncture I am scared. I may as well be discussing the life history and future of a mosquito as that of my own species.
She knew him by the sound of his spit on the dry rock. He knew her by the distance split by the bag between them set to preserve their independence and their love. They lay with their seamless trust; they would share the last crumb and die in each other’s arms.
The definition of the human’s perfection is a moment in time, passed and done in a blink, naught but a link in a chain that binds us together, a chain that binds us with the tenuous belief in echoes and ghosts. These unheeded solutions forever waiting for some curious soul to listen and oblige.
Our sense of belonging and the need of communion are the key assets in the prolonged peace on this planet, and when the chain that links us is unbroken, then we will be a singular super being, the collective understanding, collaborative cells, independent sources of imagination unlocking the code with our spontaneous inevitabilities.
I am disjointed, only half way there. My insularity creates a polemic difference the likes of which are usually reserved for grandiose eclipses. Mine is more that of a detached observer only looking at the reflection of him trying to calculate the difference. The reason for such an action is almost lost but for the knowledge that the action creates the purpose.
I am so bored that I take pills and drink beer, I don’t want oblivion, I want difference.
The beautiful sunset saddens me with its eternity.
I want to fall in to her but am scared to let go.
I sit at this stone circle with the ancient gnarled olive trees, keepers of the soil, providers of their fruit, protectors of the sun. The sentinels hear my thoughts and interpret my intent. They supply me with information, in return for my promise it will be used well.
For me to keep this promise I need to prove myself. Just as the knights of old trying for the damsel’s hand. I need to energize my spirit and write out the twist in my tail. I need to stretch and commune with the creators and offer my allegiance to one and all… This time maybe, the change will come…
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