After a brief holiday, I return!
Moving on to bigger or brighter, slightly or unsightly things.

A story that gives sense
(an anonymous tale I was told by a friend)

A potentate asks his wise men to compile all the knowledge in the world in one place for his son to learn. The wise men go away for a year and come back with 12 volumes. “Too long, make it shorter,” says the potentate. The wise men go away for another year and return with a single volume and once again the potentate says “too long, make it shorter.” They leave for yet another year and return with a single sheaf of paper. The potentate reads it. It has only one line that says:
“This too shall pass”

—————
– How can you know so surely who you are? – she quietly whispered. Then he took her hand and placed it on his chest and said, — Because this is real, and this, now, is where I am. – She never did understand that confidence. That staunch belief in tangible moments. Everything seemed to crunch in her mouth like smoke.

Coffee bones and glasses thin. Dancing slow and waking dim.
So many unfinished projects. Half eaten ideas slowly smelling faintly of mothballs.

Picker upper pucker up.
This is how we pick us up.
Tiny strings and shiny things.
Golden rings we thoughtlessly sing.

I think I found a better world,
In between the threads,
That held together this and that,
Just beneath our beds.
—————

Remind me,

Of times when we would dance.

From moonrise, till light crept in,

from fresh smoke, to stale bread.

“What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story and the greatest good is little enough for all life is a dream…”

– Life is a Dream; Calderon de la Barca,

She had words inscribed upon her back. Thick letters, bold and dark. Fat vowels and lengthy consonants. Voluminous text filling the gap between shoulder and hip. In silence even the quietest sounds seem as though a screaming echo. No. Screams are terrifying sounds. More like a deep throaty echo, reassuring and distant. I think that’s it.

The silences falls heavy upon my ears this night. Occasional grunts of a sleeping dog, squealing brakes and the sigh of trees come in ill-spaced batches.

sip sip. water. gulp. sip sip. water. sigh.

I watched The Fountain yet again. It was beautiful. An awning of a tragedy; of dying and death, being alive and what’s important. Reality and escapism, hopes and practicality. Still amazing. Still a crazy half lit dream.

The silence falls heavy upon my ears. The sound of silence, muffled steam. There it is again, ever so urgently, pressing against your head. Ever so firmly, willing you to acknowledge its existence. Its presence. An all pervading wisp. Silent quiet. Muffled steam.

I have this image. The music sounds and objects around me become animated. Dance! My pens slide with the guitar out of their tidy encasements. They fling themselves at the wall with the shake of a tambourine. The chairs lean back, thump down, turn on the left back leg, thump down! Down! They swing like this with the bass line. Dummmm dum dum dum dum dummmm dummmm. The lights pick up twick twack. You! On! Off! Me! Dancing!

Stop! Everything pauses as the curtain lifts up and sighs. Then Bang! The mug smashes into the wall ahead and the beat picks back up again. The keys clack clackety clack. The water bottle rolls thundering across the table plateau, the top Pop! Water swooshing, fountain cascading lighter twinkles. Pens smash into the ceiling, rhythmically and ink splatters down, pitter pattering.

And there I am, sitting watching with a strange grin, amused, elated, excited by the effect of music on stillness.