I am camouflaged, immersed in muddy colours, streaking in the rain. I feel dilapidated.
I climb the stairs to the attic of the grad house. No one in the room, just empty chairs, tables, an ancient piano and me. No ghost tapping black keys, not this time, just scattered crumbs and coffee stains. I close my eyes and run my hands along the objects. The wood is cut and chipped, the edges are dull. Out in the blue, where the rain muffles light, my lens is blurred again. No one is watching as I twist and pirouette and deke out the furniture until I reach my fabric lover under the window, and I fall back, sunken soul in my favourite recliner, soft and ratty. It is dark in the room but I turn out all the lights to see the rain better. I like it this way. The surfaces are gleaming in the street. Students with heads hung down, heels splashing and scraping past the million drops exploding around me. I tap my fingers. Umbrella one, umbrella two, lost in step go me and you and Bang
snaps the screen behind the window, it flutters awake with the wind, and I see me looking at myself in the glass, in a room that knows more than I do…
A gradual panic begins to unravel. What do I know? I will never be able to leave. Leave my body, to escape my self, my thoughts, the endless stream of poobelle that plagues my conscience. This is no dream, I am terrified right now. I am shut up, cornered in this tight compartment. I am always going to be this rambling clumsy hulk, I do not know how to tear this back. Where will I go, to get outside myself? Maybe a love and fear of observation is the escape, a way to leave yourself behind. Bearing witness and bearing grudges, up against a world of inner space. It makes me wonder, it makes me sick, why can’t I leave me?
Avoiding reality, French class today bothered me more than before. I heard and thought I understood all the professor’s words, but they never made a point, not a dent in my head. He was constantly alluding to the effects of lexicology, psychotropisms, run-on sentences about how the author was unable to differentiate between sense and experience; it was all vagueries. Clever words to cover all the basis of experience, and he could not explain a single thing without using a metaphor. Those words I could not touch, words that could not reflect the feeling I enjoyed; me being carried on the imagination of someone else. Words that led you outside myself.
Of course I kept thinking about the room. It was my cozy cell, where I could not exist before this moment. What big sweeping statements of insecurity. What you had here among the furniture were conversations frozen in time and space, conversations that would not let you breathe. You cannot remember who spoke first, who left last, but the words are still hanging, a film of dust, getting old in wasted time. But out there, nothing is still. It’s really a torrent now, you could see it, cascading reflections of water stains shimmering back and forth along the street. Time to leave these reflections on pavement. So I stepped out of the room, reborn, and became a puddle. I was outside looking in, squinting through the rain, and as feet skipped around the puddles I thought I saw someone flickering in an out.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
Frank's theory
All of a sudden he started drooling absurdly over everything. A little puddle of liquid disbelief started forming in the bottom-right corner of the page. His theory was finally justified. Wars, poverty, hunder, inequality... humanity would change forever. Knowing his name would be uttered in the same breath as all these historical plagues gave him a sense of pure, medieval happiness. He tried to restrain himself, but he even became aroused to the point of a bulge in his trousers. He realised it wouldn't matter if he ran down the streets fully naked yelling about the apocalypse; his power was godly from this day forward.
"Sheryl!" squealed his noise hole in childish delight.
She waltzed into the room, smelling of potatoes. She always smelled of potatoes, ever since he accidentally spliced a potato gene which entered into her soup. Coincidentally, from that day forward, he was swayed tremendously by her opinion.
"I don't know, Frank."
"What do you mean you don't know?" he thought to himself. Either you know or you don't.
"Is the world really ready for something of that magnitude? It seems a little too abrupt."
"Well Sheryl, the world can't survive off fish heads can it?"
For too long, Frank had been ignored by the fellow scientists, colleagues, friends, and now family. He alienated himself with his ridiculously empty pursuits, fashionable to dreamers. Would the president have time to pencil him in? He wondered. Every crisis, every issue, every single minutia would be subject to the theory.
"Sheryl!" squealed his noise hole in childish delight.
She waltzed into the room, smelling of potatoes. She always smelled of potatoes, ever since he accidentally spliced a potato gene which entered into her soup. Coincidentally, from that day forward, he was swayed tremendously by her opinion.
"I don't know, Frank."
"What do you mean you don't know?" he thought to himself. Either you know or you don't.
"Is the world really ready for something of that magnitude? It seems a little too abrupt."
"Well Sheryl, the world can't survive off fish heads can it?"
For too long, Frank had been ignored by the fellow scientists, colleagues, friends, and now family. He alienated himself with his ridiculously empty pursuits, fashionable to dreamers. Would the president have time to pencil him in? He wondered. Every crisis, every issue, every single minutia would be subject to the theory.
so
swept under the current
pulled the cover over head
a glimmer of light bleeds
through the closing curtain.
she doses
breathing into my ear.
dusted off my shoulders
soldiered through a wide open field
a sad happy sucker wandering why
it's time to bathe in the sky.
she leans towards you who
drowns in the blue.
pulled the cover over head
a glimmer of light bleeds
through the closing curtain.
she doses
breathing into my ear.
dusted off my shoulders
soldiered through a wide open field
a sad happy sucker wandering why
it's time to bathe in the sky.
she leans towards you who
drowns in the blue.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Noticed
A chronology of frozen moments wrapped around my conscience.
I notice the unending stream of student passengers shuffling through the doors. There is trouble: too many are caught in the enclosure, bottlenecked, between the arts building doors and the doors to the outside world. People look out longingly and look in drearily. Avoiding the chaos I take the quiet ones on the side, to the left. No one ever thinks to use the perfectly functional three other doors around them - people wait their turn patiently or impatiently, and squeeze by gracefully. Apologise when necessary. Stranded on the stairs is a girl reading On The Road. I smile at her but she is submerged with zen. I look back, transfixed, to the nebulous mass of chattering wavering bodies, that multiply and shrink and fill up again if I stare long enough.
I notice the unending stream of little children file endlessly down the street, around the corner, and presumably into infinity or at least until nap time. I have never seen so many little ones all at once. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, but probably not. They are from a preschool in the area, on a preschool trip to bask in the sidewalk sun. They are out for a walk. A walking carnival of coats of every colour, some have locked hands, some are out of order, forming groups and ranks of their own. There is a teacher every so often, to maintain peace and good conduct among the rabble. They are happening. A kaleidoscopic horde of munchkin. They speak their own language, yelps and hoots and cries, frenzied distractions of the world.
I notice the unending stream of jovial twentythirtysomethings with black shirts and bad haircuts enter the coffee shop, formerly known as empty. There was peace, once, in this land. The Trident was packed, so we tried the place next door. It was perfect - quiet, doowop and soul on the radio, bright with light, and deserted. Minutes later, we discover that we have stumbled upon the testing ground of a geek fantasy world. They are a rambunctious bunch, each cradling the same box. Tension fills the air as they await the hour of redemption. There is no authority, and every single table has filled. Enough! They devour the cardboard all at once, empty the contents (beautifully crafted miniature metallic creatures) and with unabashed glee brag about whose statue has better statistics. More and more keep filing in, one by one. I can't believe this. Someone unravels a poster and fastens it to the wall: "Dungeons and Dragons Miniatures - Deathknell Prerelease Event" I am in their domain, but they don't seem to notice.
I notice the unending stream of student passengers shuffling through the doors. There is trouble: too many are caught in the enclosure, bottlenecked, between the arts building doors and the doors to the outside world. People look out longingly and look in drearily. Avoiding the chaos I take the quiet ones on the side, to the left. No one ever thinks to use the perfectly functional three other doors around them - people wait their turn patiently or impatiently, and squeeze by gracefully. Apologise when necessary. Stranded on the stairs is a girl reading On The Road. I smile at her but she is submerged with zen. I look back, transfixed, to the nebulous mass of chattering wavering bodies, that multiply and shrink and fill up again if I stare long enough.
I notice the unending stream of little children file endlessly down the street, around the corner, and presumably into infinity or at least until nap time. I have never seen so many little ones all at once. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, but probably not. They are from a preschool in the area, on a preschool trip to bask in the sidewalk sun. They are out for a walk. A walking carnival of coats of every colour, some have locked hands, some are out of order, forming groups and ranks of their own. There is a teacher every so often, to maintain peace and good conduct among the rabble. They are happening. A kaleidoscopic horde of munchkin. They speak their own language, yelps and hoots and cries, frenzied distractions of the world.
I notice the unending stream of jovial twentythirtysomethings with black shirts and bad haircuts enter the coffee shop, formerly known as empty. There was peace, once, in this land. The Trident was packed, so we tried the place next door. It was perfect - quiet, doowop and soul on the radio, bright with light, and deserted. Minutes later, we discover that we have stumbled upon the testing ground of a geek fantasy world. They are a rambunctious bunch, each cradling the same box. Tension fills the air as they await the hour of redemption. There is no authority, and every single table has filled. Enough! They devour the cardboard all at once, empty the contents (beautifully crafted miniature metallic creatures) and with unabashed glee brag about whose statue has better statistics. More and more keep filing in, one by one. I can't believe this. Someone unravels a poster and fastens it to the wall: "Dungeons and Dragons Miniatures - Deathknell Prerelease Event" I am in their domain, but they don't seem to notice.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Cold
(I was running around my place furiously looking for something I once wrote that really frightened me at the time. It was supposed to be for someone, but it came out really cold. Found it.)
But she only got as far as the door. Familiar shivers paralysed every bone in her body until she was numb. Legs tingled and carried her back out into the lifeless street. If only there was some sound... some noise that distracted her wandering mind. She gently sung (gently? crooned?) old corny pop songs to the trees that glistened with snow. Why did everything seem so... foreign? Even the crunching under her feet felt different. She stopped and stooped and made sure her toes were alive. They were. As a child, she would often escape outside and run as fast and far as she could until the whole world was (behind her?) unrecognisable, and she would find a new way home. Back then her mind wasn't limited by reason, and she believed that she would explore the world this way. Now she was convinced that the people she knew were forever asleep, clutching their blue flesh.
Everything around her hung limp, motionless, passing through her trembling stare, framed by the deserted streets that passed like the breeze. She would find others, she would find a way out.
But she only got as far as the door. Familiar shivers paralysed every bone in her body until she was numb. Legs tingled and carried her back out into the lifeless street. If only there was some sound... some noise that distracted her wandering mind. She gently sung (gently? crooned?) old corny pop songs to the trees that glistened with snow. Why did everything seem so... foreign? Even the crunching under her feet felt different. She stopped and stooped and made sure her toes were alive. They were. As a child, she would often escape outside and run as fast and far as she could until the whole world was (behind her?) unrecognisable, and she would find a new way home. Back then her mind wasn't limited by reason, and she believed that she would explore the world this way. Now she was convinced that the people she knew were forever asleep, clutching their blue flesh.
Everything around her hung limp, motionless, passing through her trembling stare, framed by the deserted streets that passed like the breeze. She would find others, she would find a way out.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
winding down by the water
Today was a good day, satisfying.
Midday we decided to watch the sun come down on the water. In the evening we met up and walked down to the end of the street, across a parking lot, down a string of straight and windy streets until finally we met the shore, the arm. On our way there was a balcony missing a door, and skeletons of red bushes. There was an alcove etched into a sidewalk wall, with thin branches drooping over it.. I thought instantly of a waterfall and desperately wanted to claw my way in and lie vertically against the cement and look at a world full of lines. An industrial-sized pipe was drawn across the valley of the train tracks. They lead to a shipyard by the sea. We stumbled through a muddy forest and zigzagged our way to the edge, flanked by majestic monstrous homes that tried to outdo the view. The glowing sliver of red sun was already swallowed up by the tops of pine trees across the arm. Too late. Dejected we climbed the hill but the water left our eyes, and we quickly turned back towards it, scampering through properties to trace a path through a darkening sky. Stepping out onto the quiet shaley rocks, I could see forever in one direction into endless blue. Elemental feelings I can't express in words. A smattering of rocks are stranded in front of me. Everything is quiet, I keep my eyes and thoughts to myself in the dusky grey. We walk by intermittent docks, stepping carefully along the edge. Two ducks float by politely. I'm faced with a distance. Always something humbling but reasurring about the water. Nothing is passing the time or piercing the silence. It is brisk down here, so we pick ourselves up someone's stairs and walk through a vast immaculate lawn.
There I am, contemplating how blissfully content I become on these adventures, bottled and bundled up in another world, when a train whistle completes the day. It is so close it rattles my bones and fills me with childish glee.. I race up the embankment and watch it clatter by noisily. I tell my companions that when I was young my grandfather drove me out to the train tracks where I would count the endless colourful cars slowly streaming by. The train rambles into the disappearing distance and I forget the long walk home.
Midday we decided to watch the sun come down on the water. In the evening we met up and walked down to the end of the street, across a parking lot, down a string of straight and windy streets until finally we met the shore, the arm. On our way there was a balcony missing a door, and skeletons of red bushes. There was an alcove etched into a sidewalk wall, with thin branches drooping over it.. I thought instantly of a waterfall and desperately wanted to claw my way in and lie vertically against the cement and look at a world full of lines. An industrial-sized pipe was drawn across the valley of the train tracks. They lead to a shipyard by the sea. We stumbled through a muddy forest and zigzagged our way to the edge, flanked by majestic monstrous homes that tried to outdo the view. The glowing sliver of red sun was already swallowed up by the tops of pine trees across the arm. Too late. Dejected we climbed the hill but the water left our eyes, and we quickly turned back towards it, scampering through properties to trace a path through a darkening sky. Stepping out onto the quiet shaley rocks, I could see forever in one direction into endless blue. Elemental feelings I can't express in words. A smattering of rocks are stranded in front of me. Everything is quiet, I keep my eyes and thoughts to myself in the dusky grey. We walk by intermittent docks, stepping carefully along the edge. Two ducks float by politely. I'm faced with a distance. Always something humbling but reasurring about the water. Nothing is passing the time or piercing the silence. It is brisk down here, so we pick ourselves up someone's stairs and walk through a vast immaculate lawn.
There I am, contemplating how blissfully content I become on these adventures, bottled and bundled up in another world, when a train whistle completes the day. It is so close it rattles my bones and fills me with childish glee.. I race up the embankment and watch it clatter by noisily. I tell my companions that when I was young my grandfather drove me out to the train tracks where I would count the endless colourful cars slowly streaming by. The train rambles into the disappearing distance and I forget the long walk home.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
On a plane
(written in the air some time ago, not sure where i was going)
Clenched by polyester fabric and polite warnings all around me, expecting to fly, a flash of sun-drenched sky lights the narrow path that splits the plane in half. My fellow passengers are all within sight but all out of reach. Waiting to be catapaulted into a sea of clouds and fuzziness, I await release.
Flashing lights are carried through the crisscrossing veins of the city. A city that makes no noise when you’re flying miles above it. Only in the darkness everything sparkles and glistens. The further you are, the more it begins to look the same, as everything fades into itself. Shame that we live in these concrete wastelands that sprawl outwards, clawing their way into the horizon, or to the edge of the sea. They can be beautiful, but never as a whole. Communities should try and reflect their natural surroundings, instead of dominating them. If only we could give up this urgency to move great distances, always with the help of pavement.
(The plane points its nose towards the ground and there is some turbulence.)
The tip of the wing is slicing through the snowy sky (clouds, sprinkly whiteness and everything!) but we never move so fast that we cannot slow down.
Focusing my thoughts is proving to be more difficult than I anticipated. Describing observances is bothersome, since my life consists of pointing out absurdity in and around observations. We think of death when we're on a plane, don't we?
The plant in my apartment is slowly dying lonely. There was a time when I watered it diligently, about every two weeks because it was a desert plant that required little maintenance, and no grooming. But now the soil is nutrient-less. Its impending death is impeded by its stubborn refusal to give up. Ever so slowly, shrivelling up and drying out, leaves curled inwards empty of colour. Brittle bits snap off without even the help of a careless caress. "Losing its hair" I think to myself. Shrinking and recoiling into itself.. no longer eminating life, but never fully ending, its resilience gives me pause for thought.
Will my death be a grotesque spectacle for someone else? Maybe someone clutching my listless hand grinds their teeth as I take a pained last breath. I always dreamed of falling to my death, but from a great height, in order to take everything in.. but the ground would still rush up too quickly, near the end – this was the only problem. I've considered other possibilities.. maybe climbing the highest mountain and rolling off it. Drowning would be too poetic, a bullet too simple, an injection or pill too sterile. Maybe sex, or a voluntary o/d on a wide array of tranquilising drugs. Maybe it won't be up to me.. an embarassing accident that turns out my lights. I don't want to make a scene or disturb a silence when it's time.
I wonder if in the future they will find a way to make death efficient.
Clenched by polyester fabric and polite warnings all around me, expecting to fly, a flash of sun-drenched sky lights the narrow path that splits the plane in half. My fellow passengers are all within sight but all out of reach. Waiting to be catapaulted into a sea of clouds and fuzziness, I await release.
Flashing lights are carried through the crisscrossing veins of the city. A city that makes no noise when you’re flying miles above it. Only in the darkness everything sparkles and glistens. The further you are, the more it begins to look the same, as everything fades into itself. Shame that we live in these concrete wastelands that sprawl outwards, clawing their way into the horizon, or to the edge of the sea. They can be beautiful, but never as a whole. Communities should try and reflect their natural surroundings, instead of dominating them. If only we could give up this urgency to move great distances, always with the help of pavement.
(The plane points its nose towards the ground and there is some turbulence.)
The tip of the wing is slicing through the snowy sky (clouds, sprinkly whiteness and everything!) but we never move so fast that we cannot slow down.
Focusing my thoughts is proving to be more difficult than I anticipated. Describing observances is bothersome, since my life consists of pointing out absurdity in and around observations. We think of death when we're on a plane, don't we?
The plant in my apartment is slowly dying lonely. There was a time when I watered it diligently, about every two weeks because it was a desert plant that required little maintenance, and no grooming. But now the soil is nutrient-less. Its impending death is impeded by its stubborn refusal to give up. Ever so slowly, shrivelling up and drying out, leaves curled inwards empty of colour. Brittle bits snap off without even the help of a careless caress. "Losing its hair" I think to myself. Shrinking and recoiling into itself.. no longer eminating life, but never fully ending, its resilience gives me pause for thought.
Will my death be a grotesque spectacle for someone else? Maybe someone clutching my listless hand grinds their teeth as I take a pained last breath. I always dreamed of falling to my death, but from a great height, in order to take everything in.. but the ground would still rush up too quickly, near the end – this was the only problem. I've considered other possibilities.. maybe climbing the highest mountain and rolling off it. Drowning would be too poetic, a bullet too simple, an injection or pill too sterile. Maybe sex, or a voluntary o/d on a wide array of tranquilising drugs. Maybe it won't be up to me.. an embarassing accident that turns out my lights. I don't want to make a scene or disturb a silence when it's time.
I wonder if in the future they will find a way to make death efficient.
spiral
(niina lüus and i wrote this on a whim last saturday. i did one paragraph, she did the next and so on.. it has a wonderful distinct flow to it, without drifting too far into meaninglessness, and i dig the characters. it's also bizarre how similar the writing is..)
Trembling from being indoors for so long, she motioned me to waltz towards the trees.
“?” I wondered with my eyes.
“!” She exhaled, thrusting her cheekbones to the sky.
“...” grumbled myself, too subtle to make a scene, but just barely out of earshot, so she wouldn’t know what hit her. She groaned, mockingly, as I started to fall behind. She took large flamboyant steps, tucking her knees up to her waist, in a flagrant display of her annoyance.
I laughed as she tripped over a twig, picked it up, started chewing it nonchalantly, swatting flies with it when I needed to.
Downwards we crept, closer to the hypnotic water. Chasing it like lemmings to the sea. Ending our gray-skied days and snow blown nights in a watery orgy of splashing colours.
When we finally arrived, two ducks greeted us and warned us that once we entered the watery abyss, we would never leave.
I dipped my toe cautiously into the water and then tasted the sweet drops.
“Ah, caramel” I exclaimed, and threw my new flyswatter into my watery home. She walked in up to her ankles and wiggled her toes with joy, realizing that our earthly hibernation of twenty years had finally ended.
Thousands of pebbles gently rubbed each other under my feet, making a noise that could only be “kishaaa” as my wild eyes scoured the beach for something with meat. The waves were glittering, the sun was shining brilliantly – everything was blinding my eyes and obscuring my view; I wanted to weep and somehow add my own tears to the vastness that leapt outwards. I felt outside my body, firmly rooted only by the fleshy skin wrapped around grey-blue stones with my toes. I made the face the cloud above me made, and spent an eternity in all the energy of one instant.
I nudged her shoulder with my jaw: it was time to go.
Eyes smiling, she laughed and pushed me backwards. Head over heels, heels over head, I spiraled ahead to heal from my wintery grave. The sun streaked through the stream, and a high-pitched ringing vibrated in my mind, calling me to new levels of understanding. Alone in the womb-like gel, I continued spiraling to the innermost darkness, free at last from the airy superfice. I held my breath until my lungs almost imploded from the pressure.
Suffocating
Decaying
Entropy took willing control of my body.
It took all my strength to break free of the spiral, but with this rupture came a tremendous relief, a masturbatory freedom if you will, and I stopped trying to move. I let the waters flow around me, past me, even through me. I joined the salmon, and smirked at how our paths are so similar; immersed in a substance beyond our control, only able to alter ones’ direction, and how easy it is to be caught up in the spiral of existence, to let go.
I clamped down on something pink and felt scales separate in my noise hole. I emerged from the stream of life, dripping wet from the mouth that fed me. She pulled me out of the womb; shivering, we lit a fire and gorged ourselves on nature’s creation: sweet and sticky.
Trembling from being indoors for so long, she motioned me to waltz towards the trees.
“?” I wondered with my eyes.
“!” She exhaled, thrusting her cheekbones to the sky.
“...” grumbled myself, too subtle to make a scene, but just barely out of earshot, so she wouldn’t know what hit her. She groaned, mockingly, as I started to fall behind. She took large flamboyant steps, tucking her knees up to her waist, in a flagrant display of her annoyance.
I laughed as she tripped over a twig, picked it up, started chewing it nonchalantly, swatting flies with it when I needed to.
Downwards we crept, closer to the hypnotic water. Chasing it like lemmings to the sea. Ending our gray-skied days and snow blown nights in a watery orgy of splashing colours.
When we finally arrived, two ducks greeted us and warned us that once we entered the watery abyss, we would never leave.
I dipped my toe cautiously into the water and then tasted the sweet drops.
“Ah, caramel” I exclaimed, and threw my new flyswatter into my watery home. She walked in up to her ankles and wiggled her toes with joy, realizing that our earthly hibernation of twenty years had finally ended.
Thousands of pebbles gently rubbed each other under my feet, making a noise that could only be “kishaaa” as my wild eyes scoured the beach for something with meat. The waves were glittering, the sun was shining brilliantly – everything was blinding my eyes and obscuring my view; I wanted to weep and somehow add my own tears to the vastness that leapt outwards. I felt outside my body, firmly rooted only by the fleshy skin wrapped around grey-blue stones with my toes. I made the face the cloud above me made, and spent an eternity in all the energy of one instant.
I nudged her shoulder with my jaw: it was time to go.
Eyes smiling, she laughed and pushed me backwards. Head over heels, heels over head, I spiraled ahead to heal from my wintery grave. The sun streaked through the stream, and a high-pitched ringing vibrated in my mind, calling me to new levels of understanding. Alone in the womb-like gel, I continued spiraling to the innermost darkness, free at last from the airy superfice. I held my breath until my lungs almost imploded from the pressure.
Suffocating
Decaying
Entropy took willing control of my body.
It took all my strength to break free of the spiral, but with this rupture came a tremendous relief, a masturbatory freedom if you will, and I stopped trying to move. I let the waters flow around me, past me, even through me. I joined the salmon, and smirked at how our paths are so similar; immersed in a substance beyond our control, only able to alter ones’ direction, and how easy it is to be caught up in the spiral of existence, to let go.
I clamped down on something pink and felt scales separate in my noise hole. I emerged from the stream of life, dripping wet from the mouth that fed me. She pulled me out of the womb; shivering, we lit a fire and gorged ourselves on nature’s creation: sweet and sticky.
gestures
How about those moments, when you're strolling down any street, and you encounter someone exactly like yourself - a passerby. You know instantly that eye contact is going to be the key issue. You analyse your every movement and gesture, however slight. (?)
Sharing a moment of intimate understanding with a total stranger in a public place about an event that only you two have witnessed. The sly grin of mutual recognition.
Little sensations - not the objects themselves, but the sensual instants, the subtle phenomena that you're sure you're noticing, but no one else/while everyone else is in motion (perpetual).
These instantaneous moments of creation, teeming with vibration. My mind is vibtrating. What am I noticing? I am noticing happening. It is happening, before my eyes.
I must come back to this later.
Sharing a moment of intimate understanding with a total stranger in a public place about an event that only you two have witnessed. The sly grin of mutual recognition.
Little sensations - not the objects themselves, but the sensual instants, the subtle phenomena that you're sure you're noticing, but no one else/while everyone else is in motion (perpetual).
These instantaneous moments of creation, teeming with vibration. My mind is vibtrating. What am I noticing? I am noticing happening. It is happening, before my eyes.
I must come back to this later.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
silly talkers
(this was actually written october last year, and i always thought it didn't make very good sense at times and that's what i liked about it. maybe i can develop it some time.)
and then the silly talkers jumped ship. they got the hell outta there. no one saw them leave the building. they gently traipsed over emptied bodies and broken glass, then leapt from the tops of things to the bottoms of things.
they were very discreet. the only sound the pitter-patter of feet.
the current leader of the silly-talkers was a human undercover spy. he was granted this position mainly because he spoke the silliest-less. he kept the key to his life with the secret that he possessed no power at all to lead them, and he decided to always choose randomly. whatever the situation, it did not matter. he was able to survive this way; why and for how long, he did not know.
so in short, they had a direction – but no sense of direction. they were careening through life and everything faster than something you can’t even imagine.
opening doors and scrambling down emptied passageways, they looked for an exit.
“Exit!” screeched one of them. but it was never that simple. the same one continued, “we can exit everywhere, but never escape.” and then laughed manically. the others pondered quietly. like wallace stevens, the silly talkers behold nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
they decided to tackle the one with ideas. besides, the more ideas one has, the less likely one is to act on them. the mind just masturbates through the infinite possibilities and you’re just as impotent as the rest of them. like when a senile smiling old lady tells you a joke[1] in kindness, but you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or she simply has nothing in her life but you for one instant, and that is the ultimate truth she has chosen to reveal to you.
ask yourself, “what?” and hold on to a second.
intermission –
passed a man today who is always smoking a pipe outside on the veranda, cradling his life away in his rocking chair. end transmission.
anyways, the simply adorable silly talkers had this nasty habit of ‘overthought’… such a shameful thing to be cursed with sometimes. don’t you think? well the silly talkers came together to chew their way through human society with their gift of overthought. why you ask? for the Underground. “the Underground?” you say? what is it?
…
just imagine it. create it and then forget it for your life.
…
you lazy bastard.
the way i see it in my loony bin, is that the silly talkers came from an entire society of living things that has been thriving under your feet for millennia. the world that exists is only the one you see with eyes wide open.
the silly talkers loved having tea-parties and discussing the wonders of humankind. they often wondered, out of the many possibilities, how exactly the most unique species, the one they always knew had the most potential (suppose it turned out equally for good and bad), would constantly tease themselves with total destruction of their physical existence. one big-ass flood was the going opinion. it happened once before, but the silly talkers decided to change their ways this time around and drown the animals rather than saving them from the water. but really, as the silly talkers often reflected with universe-pride, natural disaster was the most poetic way to go down the drainpipe of existence.
the silly talkers maintained existence by dining on human brain (they found the cerebellum was the real treat, it was often divided up amongst the littlest silly-talkers to share). the human was full of poetic irony. the human type often went outside and stared back at the stars that projected their lives back to the planet, and one of these humans desperately avoided stepping on ants in the twilight. her name was, unfortunately, unknown to us. it came from a bizarre mixture of backgrounds, and was thus unpronounceable or even translatable into the alphabet.
the modest ones were forgotten and the insane ones were remembered. they did the same things day in day out. they claimed not to be scared of other planets, but they were terrified of something invisible they celebrated on the same night every earth-year. constantly scurrying about, coming and going, taking their baggage with them: that was humanity. and the silly talkers, unlike humanity, were brutally honest.
reeling from mind-jump, the silly talkers picked themselves up and dusted off the sleep from their eyes.
with emptied conscience they scanned for a target.
“let’s cross a desert!” yelled the smallest one, who bolted across a perfectly flat black surface, with colourful metal strewn across it in neat, pretty rows divided by lines.
“i’ll never understand why they keep building deserts.” whispered one of them. i’d tell you which one, but they whispered. oh, i forgot – silly talkers are tone-deaf. silly talkers led lives which strongly resemble a rambling hoard of barbaric philosophers. constantly forging ahead disputing what they had been taught, was the pursuit of the most brilliant humans. funny, they called themselves philosophers too. the silly talkers rushed to new heights, carrying their zealous prejudice against sense talkers with merciless vengeance…
the silly talkers went through some revolving doors.
“hey! you need a pass to go there. ugh… what the hell are you made of?”
the fattest silly talker then put his Noise-Hole Sucker 3000™ right through the noise-hole on the security man’s face on “high”. the man’s eyeballs flew across the floor into a man’s yawning mouth entering the building.
just kidding. but it was pretty sweet, even by silly-talker standards. the fat one exclaimed with delight: “opened up the other doors in their foreign language in a ham and cheese sandwich they levelled off the bloody cloth they tried to hide their selves inside the shelves that decide their every move to fling themselves into the abyss of meaning!”
the human collapsed on the floor in a mess of neurons and bloody body parts.
“NEXT!” screeched the little one. the blind guide restrained him with a leash.
[1] an old lady approaches and stares into your soul with a cute, buck-toothed, goofy grin:
– What did the cat eat for breakfast?
– I don’t know, what?
–“Mice-Krispies!”
*maniacal laughter for an instant, and then her eyes faced ahead with intensity. She plodded on with brief little baby-steps.
and then the silly talkers jumped ship. they got the hell outta there. no one saw them leave the building. they gently traipsed over emptied bodies and broken glass, then leapt from the tops of things to the bottoms of things.
they were very discreet. the only sound the pitter-patter of feet.
the current leader of the silly-talkers was a human undercover spy. he was granted this position mainly because he spoke the silliest-less. he kept the key to his life with the secret that he possessed no power at all to lead them, and he decided to always choose randomly. whatever the situation, it did not matter. he was able to survive this way; why and for how long, he did not know.
so in short, they had a direction – but no sense of direction. they were careening through life and everything faster than something you can’t even imagine.
opening doors and scrambling down emptied passageways, they looked for an exit.
“Exit!” screeched one of them. but it was never that simple. the same one continued, “we can exit everywhere, but never escape.” and then laughed manically. the others pondered quietly. like wallace stevens, the silly talkers behold nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
they decided to tackle the one with ideas. besides, the more ideas one has, the less likely one is to act on them. the mind just masturbates through the infinite possibilities and you’re just as impotent as the rest of them. like when a senile smiling old lady tells you a joke[1] in kindness, but you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or she simply has nothing in her life but you for one instant, and that is the ultimate truth she has chosen to reveal to you.
ask yourself, “what?” and hold on to a second.
intermission –
passed a man today who is always smoking a pipe outside on the veranda, cradling his life away in his rocking chair. end transmission.
anyways, the simply adorable silly talkers had this nasty habit of ‘overthought’… such a shameful thing to be cursed with sometimes. don’t you think? well the silly talkers came together to chew their way through human society with their gift of overthought. why you ask? for the Underground. “the Underground?” you say? what is it?
…
just imagine it. create it and then forget it for your life.
…
you lazy bastard.
the way i see it in my loony bin, is that the silly talkers came from an entire society of living things that has been thriving under your feet for millennia. the world that exists is only the one you see with eyes wide open.
the silly talkers loved having tea-parties and discussing the wonders of humankind. they often wondered, out of the many possibilities, how exactly the most unique species, the one they always knew had the most potential (suppose it turned out equally for good and bad), would constantly tease themselves with total destruction of their physical existence. one big-ass flood was the going opinion. it happened once before, but the silly talkers decided to change their ways this time around and drown the animals rather than saving them from the water. but really, as the silly talkers often reflected with universe-pride, natural disaster was the most poetic way to go down the drainpipe of existence.
the silly talkers maintained existence by dining on human brain (they found the cerebellum was the real treat, it was often divided up amongst the littlest silly-talkers to share). the human was full of poetic irony. the human type often went outside and stared back at the stars that projected their lives back to the planet, and one of these humans desperately avoided stepping on ants in the twilight. her name was, unfortunately, unknown to us. it came from a bizarre mixture of backgrounds, and was thus unpronounceable or even translatable into the alphabet.
the modest ones were forgotten and the insane ones were remembered. they did the same things day in day out. they claimed not to be scared of other planets, but they were terrified of something invisible they celebrated on the same night every earth-year. constantly scurrying about, coming and going, taking their baggage with them: that was humanity. and the silly talkers, unlike humanity, were brutally honest.
reeling from mind-jump, the silly talkers picked themselves up and dusted off the sleep from their eyes.
with emptied conscience they scanned for a target.
“let’s cross a desert!” yelled the smallest one, who bolted across a perfectly flat black surface, with colourful metal strewn across it in neat, pretty rows divided by lines.
“i’ll never understand why they keep building deserts.” whispered one of them. i’d tell you which one, but they whispered. oh, i forgot – silly talkers are tone-deaf. silly talkers led lives which strongly resemble a rambling hoard of barbaric philosophers. constantly forging ahead disputing what they had been taught, was the pursuit of the most brilliant humans. funny, they called themselves philosophers too. the silly talkers rushed to new heights, carrying their zealous prejudice against sense talkers with merciless vengeance…
the silly talkers went through some revolving doors.
“hey! you need a pass to go there. ugh… what the hell are you made of?”
the fattest silly talker then put his Noise-Hole Sucker 3000™ right through the noise-hole on the security man’s face on “high”. the man’s eyeballs flew across the floor into a man’s yawning mouth entering the building.
just kidding. but it was pretty sweet, even by silly-talker standards. the fat one exclaimed with delight: “opened up the other doors in their foreign language in a ham and cheese sandwich they levelled off the bloody cloth they tried to hide their selves inside the shelves that decide their every move to fling themselves into the abyss of meaning!”
the human collapsed on the floor in a mess of neurons and bloody body parts.
“NEXT!” screeched the little one. the blind guide restrained him with a leash.
[1] an old lady approaches and stares into your soul with a cute, buck-toothed, goofy grin:
– What did the cat eat for breakfast?
– I don’t know, what?
–“Mice-Krispies!”
*maniacal laughter for an instant, and then her eyes faced ahead with intensity. She plodded on with brief little baby-steps.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)