Evening lights hum with
the sound of our voices
in this vacuum
where,
from the place that is always moving,
the seasons
blend into an unrecognizable landscape
of new faces and old buildings
and they all pull together, held by the warmth
of lamps on the street, gold in the dark,
the particles of hope that are born from all sorts of evil imaginable,
out of the rabbit hole, out through the looking glass.
And in the droplets of psychoactive reciprocity
the wasteland reflected betrays
the only claim
that the moment holds on
being holy.
Friday, 30 September 2016
Thursday, 22 September 2016
The Resistance Cont.
PREPARATION.
There are bruises and scars making an atlas of his arms and legs. They are badges from his days in training. He is a master swordfighter. He has severed the heads of seven men. He tells this to the younger generation who are now training under him. When he was in their position, no one had quite warned him that at night, he would dream a bloodbath. That he would come to feel alienated from everything he’d once derived pleasure from.
Now he was a mentor, he knew he had to prepare them. There was no margin for failure, for mistakes, for errors in judgement, for being a fraction of a second too late, for thinking that trying hard is enough, for leisure or affection or matters of the heart, for hope beyond the kill.
It’s for their own good, he told himself as he hardened against the eleven pairs of wide, frightened eyes looking up to him in the gymnasium. Prepare them now for what they are going to see and what they are going to do, and I have a better chance of saving them. Saving the galaxy? That was different. He had built his life around this fight, but he had never thought about the possibility of winning it.
APATHY.
Do it for your people, his mother would say. She had the idealism that he lacked, even though he was younger and ought to have been more naive. All he could see was it getting uglier and uglier. No victory, no mercy, just endless sacrifice, and for nothing.
But he went anyway. He did it because he had nothing and no one else, and because he couldn’t have tolerated himself if he ever saw her look at him with the same eyes she used on other people. Those who didn’t cooperate for the greater good were, in her eyes, just as bad as the enemy. He didn’t think he’d survive if he was ever on the receiving end of a look like that from her.
Without friends, having had a menial job at a telecommunications company that he had lost when the business was shut down, his existence was devoid of personal or professional pleasures, no reason to feel good about himself. All he could do was keep from disappointing her, keep her proud of him. If not proud, then at least not ashamed. So whenever she told him to go out into the desert, he went.
Go and get it back, she would say. Bring it back, what is rightfully ours. She told him how he needed to look for that which had been stolen out of the hands of those who had never held their own belongings for more than seconds at a time.
Be a good dog, she says. Her fingers rest on his shoulder, providing some tactile evidence of her connection to him, her dependence on him. Every time, just as he was leaving, saying goodbye, taking the pistol she made him carry- though he would never have used it, even in the direst, most threatening of situations, for he was not a fighter, despite what she wanted to believe about her son-
Every time, she said, Bite the bullet, or bite the dust.
BETRAYAL.
He named all his sons after Jupiter’s moons. As though this, beyond their blood connection to him in the dearth of any kind of connectivity that existed on their planet, would keep them true to their shared orbit. He never did find out which of them gave him up.
He never saw any of them again after the soldiers hauled him away one cold morning the sky was tinted green. But they saw him. His face rippled before them whenever they looked away or closed their eyes.
[I compiled the tales of some of the brave individuals who fought for freedom of speech and to reclaim their human rights in the wake of the universal governing bodies being usurped and taken over by an unnamed extremist group, hell-bent on absolute domination, abolishing democracy and enforcing a totalitarian regime. You can read it here: click]]
There are bruises and scars making an atlas of his arms and legs. They are badges from his days in training. He is a master swordfighter. He has severed the heads of seven men. He tells this to the younger generation who are now training under him. When he was in their position, no one had quite warned him that at night, he would dream a bloodbath. That he would come to feel alienated from everything he’d once derived pleasure from.
Now he was a mentor, he knew he had to prepare them. There was no margin for failure, for mistakes, for errors in judgement, for being a fraction of a second too late, for thinking that trying hard is enough, for leisure or affection or matters of the heart, for hope beyond the kill.
It’s for their own good, he told himself as he hardened against the eleven pairs of wide, frightened eyes looking up to him in the gymnasium. Prepare them now for what they are going to see and what they are going to do, and I have a better chance of saving them. Saving the galaxy? That was different. He had built his life around this fight, but he had never thought about the possibility of winning it.
APATHY.
Do it for your people, his mother would say. She had the idealism that he lacked, even though he was younger and ought to have been more naive. All he could see was it getting uglier and uglier. No victory, no mercy, just endless sacrifice, and for nothing.
But he went anyway. He did it because he had nothing and no one else, and because he couldn’t have tolerated himself if he ever saw her look at him with the same eyes she used on other people. Those who didn’t cooperate for the greater good were, in her eyes, just as bad as the enemy. He didn’t think he’d survive if he was ever on the receiving end of a look like that from her.
Without friends, having had a menial job at a telecommunications company that he had lost when the business was shut down, his existence was devoid of personal or professional pleasures, no reason to feel good about himself. All he could do was keep from disappointing her, keep her proud of him. If not proud, then at least not ashamed. So whenever she told him to go out into the desert, he went.
Go and get it back, she would say. Bring it back, what is rightfully ours. She told him how he needed to look for that which had been stolen out of the hands of those who had never held their own belongings for more than seconds at a time.
Be a good dog, she says. Her fingers rest on his shoulder, providing some tactile evidence of her connection to him, her dependence on him. Every time, just as he was leaving, saying goodbye, taking the pistol she made him carry- though he would never have used it, even in the direst, most threatening of situations, for he was not a fighter, despite what she wanted to believe about her son-
Every time, she said, Bite the bullet, or bite the dust.
BETRAYAL.
He named all his sons after Jupiter’s moons. As though this, beyond their blood connection to him in the dearth of any kind of connectivity that existed on their planet, would keep them true to their shared orbit. He never did find out which of them gave him up.
He never saw any of them again after the soldiers hauled him away one cold morning the sky was tinted green. But they saw him. His face rippled before them whenever they looked away or closed their eyes.
[I compiled the tales of some of the brave individuals who fought for freedom of speech and to reclaim their human rights in the wake of the universal governing bodies being usurped and taken over by an unnamed extremist group, hell-bent on absolute domination, abolishing democracy and enforcing a totalitarian regime. You can read it here: click]]
Wednesday, 21 September 2016
If Freud and Jung were to have a rap battle...
FREUD:
This is something you've probably read.
If you're messed up in the head,
Man, I feel you. I can heal you.
Consider your dreams interpreted.
I've got so many fans, like little Hans.
My influence only expands.
Every neuroscientist should know
This psychoanalyst put the super in super-ego.
JUNG:
No one doubts my authenticity
My metaphors of electricity
I’m not tainted by bad publicity
And that’s synchron-fucking-icity.
You can try to diss me,
but my patients want to kiss me.
Everyone in society
wants a piece of me,
consciously,
unconsciously
and collectively.
FREUD:
I can explain psychic pain, and all its effects.
The cause of every complex.
It all comes back to sex, yo.
(Just ask Anna O, yo).
If you've got a problem, try me.
I hold the key to your psyche.
Nobody can falsify me.
Not even mystics mystify me.
JUNG:
I don't know much about the brain,
but I maintain that if you're insane
and your wants and wishes
are obscene, feel unclean.
I can tell you what they mean.
Hey Freud, don't be annoyed.
You're just a weirdo with a beard, yo.
A little man with a very big cigar.
Trying to compensate for how small-minded you are?
FREUD:
If you don’t think that I’m the best,
it’s just repressed,
and you are secretly obsessed,
but you know it and you will show it
when your latent desires are made manifest.
This is something you've probably read.
If you're messed up in the head,
Man, I feel you. I can heal you.
Consider your dreams interpreted.
I've got so many fans, like little Hans.
My influence only expands.
Every neuroscientist should know
This psychoanalyst put the super in super-ego.
JUNG:
No one doubts my authenticity
My metaphors of electricity
I’m not tainted by bad publicity
And that’s synchron-fucking-icity.
You can try to diss me,
but my patients want to kiss me.
Everyone in society
wants a piece of me,
consciously,
unconsciously
and collectively.
FREUD:
I can explain psychic pain, and all its effects.
The cause of every complex.
It all comes back to sex, yo.
(Just ask Anna O, yo).
If you've got a problem, try me.
I hold the key to your psyche.
Nobody can falsify me.
Not even mystics mystify me.
JUNG:
I don't know much about the brain,
but I maintain that if you're insane
and your wants and wishes
are obscene, feel unclean.
I can tell you what they mean.
Hey Freud, don't be annoyed.
You're just a weirdo with a beard, yo.
A little man with a very big cigar.
Trying to compensate for how small-minded you are?
FREUD:
If you don’t think that I’m the best,
it’s just repressed,
and you are secretly obsessed,
but you know it and you will show it
when your latent desires are made manifest.
Friday, 16 September 2016
a playlist
Not Going Home- The Elected
Cynical Beings- Anitek
Kettering- The Antlers
Tomorrow Never Knows- The Beatles
Hide From The Sun- Goat
Psycho Killer- Talking Heads
Artifact #1- Conor Oberst
For The Widows In Paradise, For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti- Sujfan Stevens
Ode To Billie Joe- Bobbie Gentry
Ghost of Stephen Foster- Squirrel Nut Zippers
Cynical Beings- Anitek
Kettering- The Antlers
Tomorrow Never Knows- The Beatles
Hide From The Sun- Goat
Psycho Killer- Talking Heads
Artifact #1- Conor Oberst
For The Widows In Paradise, For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti- Sujfan Stevens
Ode To Billie Joe- Bobbie Gentry
Ghost of Stephen Foster- Squirrel Nut Zippers
Members of The Resistance
WARRIOR.
She meets her father at the end of the world.
He's there among the stars, his face glowing from out of the dark dripping space, as if he had always been the moon. There are security cameras everywhere. This moment will be broadcast to each corner of the galaxy, so she makes sure to look him in the eye and smile. She squares her shoulders, trying to not to look like cared little girl on a desert planet. Trying not to look like she's a million light years from home. Trying to forget she was ever the girl who cowered underneath the bed while soldiers stamped through the safe-houses and tore bedrooms apart, pilfered safety boxes, broke windows, as the planes came overhead- you could never hear them coming. They shone bright lights into all the hiding places.
Does he recognise her now? She is a thief, a master con artist, a warrior. She had wanted to go to sea, long ago, and study the behaviour of whales. Now, she stands at the end of it all with a big gun and a bigger smile. The threats worsen as time passes, but her outer shell grows harder, hands steadier.
Time can work wonders, if you want it to.
JUSTICE.
Her starship gets stolen and she doesn't realise it until it's too late. She's running where strange plants grow, through grass that scratches her legs, waving her pistol, shouting in every language she knows: how could you do this? how could you take this away from me? how could you break open my chest, take out my heart, and then crush my skull with the weight of my own birthright?
Eventually, as the hulk of metal recedes into the disappearing distance, she stops and gives up, breathless. Red light bleeds into the sky. She has nothing to hold onto anymore, and nothing that stirs her to chase after something else.
QUIET.
They huddle together as they sleep. They had taken the pots and pans off the wall, put away the plates and cleared she shelves, for the walls would be shaken with the thrum of war, and everything in the house would clatter too loudly. We might as well paint a red mark on our door, his brother had said. When he is asleep, it's the only time he is able to pretend that he isn't going from place to place with no home. He isn't running for his life. They aren't being hunted. That there is a place somewhere in the galaxy where he can go and the predators won't find him. When he wakes up, the reality solidifies around him, colder every day, but for a few seconds before he opens his eyes he is still somewhere else.
This morning, as he comes out of sleep, he is for a moment in a different sort of huddle. He can hear his mother's voice- the sweetest voice- calling for him from the other side of the lake. How long will he be able to preserve that memory of the way she laughed- like the tinkling of polished glass? How long before they invaded his sleep and found him there?
RUTHLESS.
Her mentor had shaped her into a weapon- sharp mind, sharp blade, sharp vision, sharp instincts. This combination could be what brings the empire to its knees. To its bloody end. As she spit up blood, he would tell her that she was a device, that she had one purpose. Her teeth were like little daggers. She couldn't feel things that that used to be part of everyday, but she couldn't remember those things, and didn't miss them. Her purpose had become everything.
What do I do when I reach my target? She asked him.
You do what you do best, he said. Activate.
ESCAPE.
The last place he had been before going on the road again, he had met some of the locals who had stories about the Other World. No one knew how to get there, and the gates were barred and guarded, and you'd die trying to get anywhere near the walls at the edge. His knuckles whiten around his steering wheel, the morning fog billowing in. He drives into it, wondering if he will be the same when he comes out the other side. He presses down on the accelerator. Faster, faster. If he had hope, h would throw it to the wind. He doesn't know where he's going, but he will find that gate to the Other World, and when they kill him, at least he will die knowing that he tried.
RAGE.
The very moment their trap was sprung, he knew that they were all going to die. Arrows shot from crossbows, piercing flesh. Heads separated from bodies. Fire and noise and twisted metal and brutality- that was the world in its entirety.
Sword slipping from his grip, he ran into the thick of it. Battle was the only place for anger like his.
He was determined to fight with the might of his hatred, even if it would only speed up his end.
RESILIENCE.
People used to say that humans were destroying the earth. This was an arrogant belief. They didn’t need to worry. The earth was going to destroy them before they could harm it.
They could burn down forests, reduce civilisations to dust, but the earth never stopped regrowing, repairing the damage, and try as they may, they could not bring down the mountains, and they could not drain the sea.
TRADE.
He had forbidden his children from fighting. They saw him cleaning the barrels of his guns, go down to his underground bunker where they knew he was building explosives. Strangers came to him, gave him food or books or the parts he needed to build a radio in exchange for the weapons and armour that he made. He could give them gifts on their shared birthdays because of the demand for weapons. Even if fighting was the right thing to do, he told the twins that they weren’t to fight, they weren’t to go near the weapons. If he lost them, what would he have that was worth fighting for?
He slept with a revolver under his pillow. He cried in his sleep, and dreamt in black and white.
SACRIFICE.
They had decided to disobey their father. He would come nightly from his underground room to kiss them goodnight. When he was gone, one of them would climb into the other's bed. Only when in this close proximity could they sleep, feeling safe in the knowledge that they still had one another. They slept face to face. When they woke up, they wore one another’s faces.
One morning, their father would wake to find armour and guns missing. He raged at their stupidity, at their disobedience, and waited, He could do nothing else. He had to believe in them. And he did, until his son brought back a helmet, spattered with blood. He stopped speaking, after that. I couldn’t find her body, were his only and last words. I’m sorry.
ILLUMINATION.
He meets his daughter at the end of the world. She is smiling against a backdrop of stars. The dark, dripping space. He's come to know the darkness, but seeing her in it, she is light.
He is a revolutionary, a member of the resistance, a rebellion that stretches across the galaxy.
He has been the killer, in a kill or be killed world. He is a father. He had forgotten that.
Her smile has a wicked edge, and she stands differently, looks at him differently. She doesn't look up to him anymore, but straight at him. They are equals. But her eyes still look just like they did when she was born, when she needed him. He wants to tell her that he changed to protect her. That he broke something to be certain that she would never be broken again.
In her, he can see himself. A deadly mirror, an eternally complex puzzle, part of a whole but somehow a whole, and it scares him.
The more time passes, the easier it becomes to neglect the things that were once most important to you. You can’t imagine the things that, someday, you will have forgotten. In the reframing of your promises, you detach, the ache disappears. It stops hurting to remember the way it used to be.
Time can work wonders, even when you don’t want it to.
She meets her father at the end of the world.
He's there among the stars, his face glowing from out of the dark dripping space, as if he had always been the moon. There are security cameras everywhere. This moment will be broadcast to each corner of the galaxy, so she makes sure to look him in the eye and smile. She squares her shoulders, trying to not to look like cared little girl on a desert planet. Trying not to look like she's a million light years from home. Trying to forget she was ever the girl who cowered underneath the bed while soldiers stamped through the safe-houses and tore bedrooms apart, pilfered safety boxes, broke windows, as the planes came overhead- you could never hear them coming. They shone bright lights into all the hiding places.
Does he recognise her now? She is a thief, a master con artist, a warrior. She had wanted to go to sea, long ago, and study the behaviour of whales. Now, she stands at the end of it all with a big gun and a bigger smile. The threats worsen as time passes, but her outer shell grows harder, hands steadier.
Time can work wonders, if you want it to.
JUSTICE.
Her starship gets stolen and she doesn't realise it until it's too late. She's running where strange plants grow, through grass that scratches her legs, waving her pistol, shouting in every language she knows: how could you do this? how could you take this away from me? how could you break open my chest, take out my heart, and then crush my skull with the weight of my own birthright?
Eventually, as the hulk of metal recedes into the disappearing distance, she stops and gives up, breathless. Red light bleeds into the sky. She has nothing to hold onto anymore, and nothing that stirs her to chase after something else.
QUIET.
They huddle together as they sleep. They had taken the pots and pans off the wall, put away the plates and cleared she shelves, for the walls would be shaken with the thrum of war, and everything in the house would clatter too loudly. We might as well paint a red mark on our door, his brother had said. When he is asleep, it's the only time he is able to pretend that he isn't going from place to place with no home. He isn't running for his life. They aren't being hunted. That there is a place somewhere in the galaxy where he can go and the predators won't find him. When he wakes up, the reality solidifies around him, colder every day, but for a few seconds before he opens his eyes he is still somewhere else.
This morning, as he comes out of sleep, he is for a moment in a different sort of huddle. He can hear his mother's voice- the sweetest voice- calling for him from the other side of the lake. How long will he be able to preserve that memory of the way she laughed- like the tinkling of polished glass? How long before they invaded his sleep and found him there?
RUTHLESS.
Her mentor had shaped her into a weapon- sharp mind, sharp blade, sharp vision, sharp instincts. This combination could be what brings the empire to its knees. To its bloody end. As she spit up blood, he would tell her that she was a device, that she had one purpose. Her teeth were like little daggers. She couldn't feel things that that used to be part of everyday, but she couldn't remember those things, and didn't miss them. Her purpose had become everything.
What do I do when I reach my target? She asked him.
You do what you do best, he said. Activate.
ESCAPE.
The last place he had been before going on the road again, he had met some of the locals who had stories about the Other World. No one knew how to get there, and the gates were barred and guarded, and you'd die trying to get anywhere near the walls at the edge. His knuckles whiten around his steering wheel, the morning fog billowing in. He drives into it, wondering if he will be the same when he comes out the other side. He presses down on the accelerator. Faster, faster. If he had hope, h would throw it to the wind. He doesn't know where he's going, but he will find that gate to the Other World, and when they kill him, at least he will die knowing that he tried.
RAGE.
The very moment their trap was sprung, he knew that they were all going to die. Arrows shot from crossbows, piercing flesh. Heads separated from bodies. Fire and noise and twisted metal and brutality- that was the world in its entirety.
Sword slipping from his grip, he ran into the thick of it. Battle was the only place for anger like his.
He was determined to fight with the might of his hatred, even if it would only speed up his end.
RESILIENCE.
People used to say that humans were destroying the earth. This was an arrogant belief. They didn’t need to worry. The earth was going to destroy them before they could harm it.
They could burn down forests, reduce civilisations to dust, but the earth never stopped regrowing, repairing the damage, and try as they may, they could not bring down the mountains, and they could not drain the sea.
TRADE.
He had forbidden his children from fighting. They saw him cleaning the barrels of his guns, go down to his underground bunker where they knew he was building explosives. Strangers came to him, gave him food or books or the parts he needed to build a radio in exchange for the weapons and armour that he made. He could give them gifts on their shared birthdays because of the demand for weapons. Even if fighting was the right thing to do, he told the twins that they weren’t to fight, they weren’t to go near the weapons. If he lost them, what would he have that was worth fighting for?
He slept with a revolver under his pillow. He cried in his sleep, and dreamt in black and white.
SACRIFICE.
They had decided to disobey their father. He would come nightly from his underground room to kiss them goodnight. When he was gone, one of them would climb into the other's bed. Only when in this close proximity could they sleep, feeling safe in the knowledge that they still had one another. They slept face to face. When they woke up, they wore one another’s faces.
One morning, their father would wake to find armour and guns missing. He raged at their stupidity, at their disobedience, and waited, He could do nothing else. He had to believe in them. And he did, until his son brought back a helmet, spattered with blood. He stopped speaking, after that. I couldn’t find her body, were his only and last words. I’m sorry.
ILLUMINATION.
He meets his daughter at the end of the world. She is smiling against a backdrop of stars. The dark, dripping space. He's come to know the darkness, but seeing her in it, she is light.
He is a revolutionary, a member of the resistance, a rebellion that stretches across the galaxy.
He has been the killer, in a kill or be killed world. He is a father. He had forgotten that.
Her smile has a wicked edge, and she stands differently, looks at him differently. She doesn't look up to him anymore, but straight at him. They are equals. But her eyes still look just like they did when she was born, when she needed him. He wants to tell her that he changed to protect her. That he broke something to be certain that she would never be broken again.
In her, he can see himself. A deadly mirror, an eternally complex puzzle, part of a whole but somehow a whole, and it scares him.
The more time passes, the easier it becomes to neglect the things that were once most important to you. You can’t imagine the things that, someday, you will have forgotten. In the reframing of your promises, you detach, the ache disappears. It stops hurting to remember the way it used to be.
Time can work wonders, even when you don’t want it to.
Thursday, 15 September 2016
Life Has Always Been a Mystery to Me- the musings of an autistic man
I've tried counting stars but I'd need a tape measure.
If I had a friend, we would count them together
but people cross their words, always disagree.
People have always been a mystery to me.
Summer comes by later with each passing year.
Some yesterdays are distant, and others too near.
They say that time flies, and yet nothing is free.
Time has always been a mystery to me.
Put explanations together, pull them apart.
I'd like to know why but wouldn't know where to start.
With cause and effect, two plus two equals three.
Reasons have always been a mystery to me.
At Catholic school, I talked to him but he wouldn't speak.
Finding strength in blind believing just makes you weak.
I could never have faith in that which I can't see.
God has always been a mystery to me.
The moment you cross your heart, all hope has died.
If you can't deliver, does it not matter that you tried?
I learnt when I was very young to trust nobody.
Promises have always been a mystery to me.
There are secrets that hide behind other people's eyes.
Their voices sound truthful, even when they tell lies.
From what I've seen of love, it's nowhere I'd want to be.
Love has always been a mystery to me.
If I had a friend, we would count them together
but people cross their words, always disagree.
People have always been a mystery to me.
Summer comes by later with each passing year.
Some yesterdays are distant, and others too near.
They say that time flies, and yet nothing is free.
Time has always been a mystery to me.
Put explanations together, pull them apart.
I'd like to know why but wouldn't know where to start.
With cause and effect, two plus two equals three.
Reasons have always been a mystery to me.
At Catholic school, I talked to him but he wouldn't speak.
Finding strength in blind believing just makes you weak.
I could never have faith in that which I can't see.
God has always been a mystery to me.
The moment you cross your heart, all hope has died.
If you can't deliver, does it not matter that you tried?
I learnt when I was very young to trust nobody.
Promises have always been a mystery to me.
There are secrets that hide behind other people's eyes.
Their voices sound truthful, even when they tell lies.
From what I've seen of love, it's nowhere I'd want to be.
Love has always been a mystery to me.
Wednesday, 14 September 2016
A Ballade
Left sun-poisoned by a summer, and all its hot spills,
that passed as if in blinks, in stills, not a blur.
They shared spaghetti, sun lotion, pillows and pills.
Outside, trees dropped eaves on their secrets,, leaves purr.
Outside, a clatter of noises, the engines that whirr
living in the belly of some huge city car.
Windows once rushed her to where others were.
She to him: Why would I leave now I’m where you are?
He to her: You are victory won by pillow or by a balloon.
She to him: You are the warm rush of blood to the cheeks.
He to her: You are the first ever step, out there on the moon.
She to him: You are the first touch, after three parted weeks.
He told her that someday they’d visit the mountain’s top peaks
and they’d write their names in the light of a star.
She dreamt flecks of stardust, leaving galaxies on her cheeks.
He to her: Anything’s possible when I’m here, where you are.
She knew that she had talked too much of the past
but it was not because there was something to miss.
She to him: You give me more than I could ever have asked.
You took my ignorance, and left me with bliss.
My imagination at first glance, my breath at first kiss.
She asked: forever? He said: Forever isn’t as far
as where we are headed. / What for? / For this.
I’m here. You’re there. There, here you are
The Doctrine of the Changing Lightbulb
I wrote an article, sort of- I'm not really sure what it is. I'm reluctant to say that they are jokes because I don't want to presume myself or my writing to be funny, but it is based on a joke- you know the old lightbulb and changing said lightbulb joke. But regardless, I enjoyed writing this. The link is here:
The Doctrine of the Changing Lightbulb
I can put it up here if anyone wants to read it and can't but it should all be copacetic.
The Doctrine of the Changing Lightbulb
I can put it up here if anyone wants to read it and can't but it should all be copacetic.
Waste - Horatio James
With help and inspiration from James, I attempted to realise my creative vision and be experimental without being pretentious. It's different from anything I've done before but a great editing exercise and I very much like the finished product (the song is okay too).
Tuesday, 13 September 2016
Sailboats
His eyes were aged and brown from years of dreaming. About sailboats, he said. He said that there was only one place worth escaping to, and that only sailboats could take you there. I never knew where that place was. We drank sweet tea on the pier and took walks, collecting seashells on the way home. I stopped feeling sick about the space between stars when we shared our own space in the warm evenings that turned into nights only marginally cooler. Strangely, we were louder then. Trying to learn the songs of sailors and drinking songs and the songs that belonged to travellers. Our days were spent in a sincere, cosy sort of silence.
But as is ever, things regressed towards the mean. He started telling me things I knew that I was secretly thinking, as if he could read my thoughts alongside sentences in his book named The Elegant Universe, which was about dimensions in hiding and superstrings and a quest for the ultimate theory. When I told him that we should perhaps just be friends, he set fire to all his sailboats. I never did tell him that the love I had for him put his oceanic expeditions to shame. That even if he did float away, one constant would remain, and still, even if there were hundred of miles between us: loving him would always be my biggest and favourite adventure.
But as is ever, things regressed towards the mean. He started telling me things I knew that I was secretly thinking, as if he could read my thoughts alongside sentences in his book named The Elegant Universe, which was about dimensions in hiding and superstrings and a quest for the ultimate theory. When I told him that we should perhaps just be friends, he set fire to all his sailboats. I never did tell him that the love I had for him put his oceanic expeditions to shame. That even if he did float away, one constant would remain, and still, even if there were hundred of miles between us: loving him would always be my biggest and favourite adventure.
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