Monday 12 June 2017

Leg room is not permitted, because we need a little less space of our own. Transient thoughts pt. 3

Leg room is not permitted, because we need a little less space of our own. Transient thoughts, pt. 3 :




"Beneath the land that you walk is an extensive tunnel-system. In these tunnels there are over 1500 different species of ugly people.

We decided, I'm afraid to say, in the 1960s; when things started to change and got shallower perhaps. And so, in the name of good balance, we sent them away in their hordes.

*

The tunnels are lit and ventilated, have running water and, on the whole, are pretty warm. There is a large volcano that provides most of the heat, but once a tunneller hit an underground magma chamber. We lost 37, brave, ugly lives that day. One was a promising underground musician; Hollywood had rejected him, by virtue of a pronounced forehead. It protruded, like a Neanderthals did, and with the right lighting, too resembled a kind of unicorn horn. Jerry wanted to escape. He'd been practicing his needle-work and thought he could doctor the issue himself.

Heaven forbid for he hath died!"

It's pretty fucking relentless, listening to you two discuss ex-partners. "My ex was so so un-loyal," "but mine was crude, too." Just tell each-other you want to procreate. Or take measures against this deed; still lay in the name of the father, but not the son: Mary weeps at western men. Fornicate with flora and listen to the din.

My hands are throbbing and inside them are insects, which dance and make me fidget.

Stroke your hair and brag of an older woman, for your sex-appeal, even though she can see you already, will go through the roof. Out, up and above the glass ceiling into a world of fantasy - you, kind sir, are just a crustacean and have a confusing symbolism to your face.

Open the curtains and let in the light - don't mind the rain, inside is wet already, just let in the light. The window is closed anyway.

"Oh, fuck," he thinks. "I didn't want to be in a relationship; it's just a game of pretending to care with a sweaty, unwanted cuddle good-night." If you blow the smoke into my jumper, maybe they won't smell it.

It's a bit like using the rupee in Cheltenham, if you think about it a little more. Magic isn't illusion, but just really quick movement of furniture - I had a music box with only nine keys. My t-shirt is currently attached to back, like the slices of cheese you buy to cellophane-wrap: 'cheese singles', I believe.

With that sweet warm nectarine, I am yours. Imagine burying a family member in the garden a like poor little woofer - nothing but bone and memory. I put a stick into the ground and now it is your place to rest forever more.

Also, button down your jeans and play second-fiddle to her broad shouldered lover, with arms as wide as his television-screen. Scream, for more, the ride is free today only! Staggering back, you realise it is similar in structure to a game of chess, or the hand which strokes the clock-face.


Sunday 11 June 2017

Transient thoughts, pt. 2: after the event.

Transient thoughts, pt. 2: after the event.


Out of the darkness and into the light, of Bromley-by-Bow on the District Line. As the light pours in, life is affirmed and nature is visible, if slightly unnatural.  You’re on the penthouse train, atop the ground, now. It's the new one, the one where you can see all the way down and which kind-of resembles a snake; like the spirit of the thing itself. You're coursing through the city's core, now out of the thick growth where things aren't easily visible. You feel more free out here, but still inside a tube, not free, journeying to a place that you know you are going to. Home. You feel a crescent of deadness around your spirit, a crescent that at one point in its complete cycle, will be full. You feel frayed at the edges, but so very tight and taught at your center; unmoved and wound up. You are at a dangerous torsion and might topple like the wind-up toy, when the firm hold, grounding you, is released.

*

You kick your too-tight shoes off, flicking them with finesse into the shoe rack that your (ex) father-in-law gave you as a housewarming gift, from when you were consciously coupled with the love of his life: his darling sweetheart, his only daughter. You feel proud for landing both for one is good, and rare, but two is unheard of. You smile smugly, but not obnoxiously, with just a slight turn at the corners of your mouth. In your mind however, you are celebrating, in stadia to cheer as the two successful kicks return in action replay in your mind. The soft thud of TKMaxx discount-leather hitting the rack's wooden frame reverberates in your mind's ear and feels pleasurable.

It was a long day, as it always is, you think. You signed up to a digital magazine though, subscribing out of choice to get a free voucher for a takeaway, and other reasons.  You are culturally aware! You are creative and really do see the value in reading this week's lead story: 'why neoliberal garden space is uncanny, and represents wider political structures'. You'll probably cancel before the time given, in discount, as an introductory offer, and it pays for itself with free takeaway, anyway. Everyone must do it, you think. You think too much and often as if you are in a moment suspended; where thought and clarity abstract to something harder to decipher.

You are hearing, as you always do,  the drone of road noise, but by this small virtue, you think you probably save a few precious pounds a month. Your bank balance, which you checked on the way home, wouldn't buy many rubies, but for the first time in a long while you are in the black. Your watch ticks and you check it, around 3.37pm, and you thank someone, but nobody, for it being Friday: the day of the earlier finish.

Saturday 10 June 2017

Another aside, without laptop and away from home. Heimlich and Unheimlich dance within.

'If reading on a mobile, rotate your device to landscape,' if you will.

Bus-stop.
thoughts, reflecting on watching (a) 'waking life' :

Narcissus and I

The nature of existence, the essence, kernel or core, does not mind whether the person we address is yellow, brown, black. Or even he, she, this or that; it revolts in play and dances in fear. The primitive essence of being is tentative, by virtue of safety. It is nervous, by virtue of caution and it is insecure by virtue of condition. It is fragile, yet so developed and to be free is truly to be condemned: to a life of decision, which, however hard to take, requires making.

Self fashioning, or self-creation exists in a luminal borderland, between light and darkness, enlightenment and anxiety. It is limitless and liminal and is always in flux, bordered by the mechanistic structures which we have built. Time seems to hasten and through proportion is understood. If one is to age, a singular day slowly loses its importance, lost to the ether of other days, other memories too. Thrown into this melting pot is taste, which however folly to appearance is central in reality. That is, the reality which we call ourselves the driver of; for you are the conductor of your will and, similar to god, are creative and innovative, too.

For Joseph built his house on solid rock, it stands and remains today. For I stand and remain here, today, I must learn to listen and I must learn to pray. Maybe not a deity, but to something else out there, spiritual or freeing, but with hope in its soul. Evolve and develop into the being you desire, a human marked by insecurity and naked passion. As the candle flickers to the midnight breeze, life licks upon the frayed edges of me. A call to prayer and a fall to arms, for my legs cannot carry this burden anymore. Ask yourself that question and look past the mask that you have set beyond yourself, in a game of second guesses and gaiety. Fuck, am I free? Or condemned to be lonely and listening to inaudible ecstasy - to Ecuador I shall travel, for there they have the golden frog, which my aunt has on a golden key-ring.

Travel and commerce have changed the soul of man, woman and further afield. Cultures have collided and the realisation, to me, requires re-focussing; or simply just a understanding of this being you and this being me. Your me is different to mine, but has the same questions flickering in the shadows of night, and the blurring hazes of day.

The essence of your beauty pervades me,
Like the fierce unbounded force of nature.
Something stirs beyond me - all portraiture,
is faceless, displaced with your image. Flee
from my mind, my vision is conflicted.
As the sticks image refracts in water,
my body is bound in this restricted
perception, something engulfs me. 'Tis Me.
I love towards you with my hands open,
my heart rupturing. With a hopeful note
of your sweet voice, I am mended, hope in,
inside of me! Passion makes my soul bloat.
Look at me! Half of hermaphroditus,
totalise me, for destined double-ness

Don't gaze in to the sparkly carpet or glittered D I S C O-ball.  Cosmic harmonies tickle at my toes. The rest is peaceful, if you will, but I have to admit that I've seen the ending before. Putting your shoes on only hurts if you sleep on an uneven mattress. Walk on the right and stand upside down, if you will.