the pond

Well that's impressive, in a way. There's this needle and thread I just found. The needle went right in my leg. I pulled it out without a second thought. Needles are like vapors for those with hearts of butter.

Well that's impressive. Indeed it was. Indeed things have been, in a way. I can feel these tidal mood changes. I can feel the wavering presence of my doubt. This fucking doubt, that eats me like a block of Black & White cheese. I swear that's not even real cheese. 

Well it was impressive. They impressed me so. In a way or two: in several. They have a taste and a manner. They have bluey-bluey eyes that are reserved only for those of some sort of noble family. It's a blue blood, of sorts; it's a lineage. There's only so much one person can do; a lineage, on the other hand, is different. A following, a gathering of poise, taste, and rosy cheeks: a lineage can sweep a large space. A space perhaps larger than my living room (which I rarely use, being solely occupied by a blanket and some soft drink cups that were long left there, forgotten).

Well that is bloody impressive, in more ways than one. It is to me, at least: the wanderer. Look, I'm not really, I'm not really. I'm not; I have a center: it's my bedroom. But I go about and I do ludricous things at ludricous times. I'll wake up in a strange barn with old vehicles. That's not who I am, it's just what I do. And so I suppose, they have swept away large impressive areas, and belongings that could have been mine, borrowed or used. And I just stood there smiling, glad and stupid. Had it been any other occasion I would have adored them. But there's always something wrong when I pull needles out and it barely hurts, in a sense, an excusably mild poetic sense, if I may say so. It would really make my day if I could be poetic, just for once. Anyway, what I'm trying to say, but it won't come out, is that there's something wrong when I pick up that stringy 6-chord apparatus, that verse-and-chorus music maker. There's something wrong when you're not wailing a senseless sonic beat to them guitar things, but rather holding it like a dear friend, patiently blasé, waiting for it to reveal the answers to all your afflictions. Afflictions we make so huge, in our heads, when they are in reality so minor. I mean, really. Who am I to judge? I'm just a block of cheese. 

Indeed. The impressionists hit the spot. I just wish, and have the fondest hope that everything is quite alright, and that it's not too cold outside, in the pouring rain. 

cyclopean eye

And I guess all I wanted to say will come out unstated; understaded, implied in silly verses I make up. And there is a dreary feeling I get but then it dissipates so quickly, like a cool shudder of air-con on as we pace past the Plaza in those stuffy hot days. And I guess I could tell from the start that there are really no barriers and that the slate is clean; and that the go-card automatic gates are like interruptions of territory, demanding coin for hikes into town.

And we do take our freedom for granted, and we toss with it playfully and mindlessly, knowing it to be so firm. But it is because we forget what history did for us, and we forget that this modernity is also the next step, and that in order to pace forward we have to have the initiative of some kind of revolution. And if the revolution is in the creative minds and in the simple change of pace and time, changing frenzied schedules into organic wholesome lifestyles, then so be it. That's still worth a try. To lead by example, maybe.

And if I can't conform to this life, I won't go. I won't go but I'll be gone for a while. Because to me the danger looms really in this static breath; in these pigeon suits and neverending anxiety I see left, and squarely center. The danger looms in the eternal loneliness of mind. Why do we deny to get to know ourselves?

What's so wrong in listening to music anyway? I can barely breathe sometimes. Last night it was so cold in the train line, and it rained heavily, and the gutters were draining, turning water, and I stood shivering. But as I reached for my music container, the iPhone savior as they say it, as I reached for it indeed I knew exactly what would make me warm, and which voice and energy would hold me for the hour, and take the kind of care for me like the boyfriend I've never had. And it was Conor Oberst, of course, speaking to me clearly but also speaking of him: about freedom and all the things he used to feel so strongly about, and I guess I just love him because he has a heart, and because his affection is so transparent, and nothing more.

An when I share this with you I expect that you find me truthful, and plain in my expectations. You are either a dear friend or otherwise necessity. Either way, I have seen in you the possibility of a door, and a hallway, and possibly even a lounge room at the end of it, in which we can seat in plush leather seats and smoke cigars. So don't untangle, but rather absorb, and apply to you what needs applying. And remember only the parts that remind you of yourself.

It's not so much any part of sadness, but it's just a rapid thought that sometimes repeats itself. And it's that sometimes I take such high plunges and I hit the pool to find no such wonderful splashes, but rather a bit of concrete and a bit of mould growing at the top edges of this concave creature, and I guess my head hurts a little from dry diving, but hey, no one ever said I wasn't the adventurous type. I guess the circus is free to run however it pleases, and I sometimes buy popcorn and sit on the sidelines to watch the loud presentations. I mainly, however, enjoy my time inside the cage, with the glowing fire rings and the lions. Or dragons.

I wanted to have the oxygen capacity to reply to a familiar lie; I want to have the unbrashed capacity to feel fresh and honest with a friend, and with someone that used to be so Jane, but is now suddenly so Mary Poppins. And sometimes when I lay my realities slowly, feeling the territory before the fire brigade, I get the hunches it isn't right, and that I am wrong to be trying to be so real in this fleshy, fleshy body. And then I pretend to dance around a sentence, and I turn my head around and face the wind for a moment. And when my company turns back at me in a moment of intense intrigue, I realise I have outdone myself again and smile brightly back at them - because I can't help being the driving force behind all the nice things that are happening around me. And so I should stand firmly in my small boots and find some comfort in this common ground; and remember that in the end, we need no one but our own Cyclopean eye.