We watch the mountains emerge from the mist, as if they are brand new, the energy is certainly brand new. It emanates from the rock vibrating our very being, like they have only just arrived. We climb into them in twists and turns, as intruders in their realm, we watch their work with water. We observe the mountain’s vertical forests feeding clouds to the sky, we see them build and march into the blue. Higher we see water cascading high above us from the rock. As we approach the peak we find water’s final form hiding in the mist, snow bringing a sparkling chill. Before we descend, zig zagging down the other side of the mountain. To the lush valley receiving the mountain’s gifts.
As I sit in the Italian castle, I enjoy the cool breeze blowing through the open window, fresh blossom tantalises the senses. The afternoon light hits the ancient rafters lighting them in rusty hues. Through one window, the green hills roll elegantly, scattered in villas and cyprus trees. Through the right window I see Siena’s Torre Del Mangia in the distant haze. In the next room a lady sings beautifully as she cleans. A nice day.
They have peppered their peaks with holes, as if they were beetles with new wood. Every cove sprouts concrete warts. The tarmac arteries are clogged with mechanical cholesterol. The bay’s beauty long ago smothered. I can feel her heavy heart through the ether.
The ground gathered into a mountain, to prick the sky’s ego.
We are all an ocean, temporarily residing in our own bucket, the only thing preventing us being one, is this bucket. Perhaps dear Lisa we get a hole in our bucket, or sometimes look a little pale. When we finally spill from our bucket, our bucket is kicked. We merely return to the ocean.
I remember when I was first put in this box, the stench. Now just a subtle burning in my nostrils, but I remember that first moment well, the acrid smell that went with last light. Though there is a little light, a slim dagger crease where the lid does not quite seal. So I can tell when day and night turns. But I lost count of the days. Now I just cling to my mind, try to keep it tethered to me. My stomach is in a constant cramp, I can feel every single one of my joints throbbing. I thought determination could conquer all, I could heave the lid open, yet here I remain. This box is stronger than I. Stronger than all those before me.
Religion, the bane of peace for many minds. The religious pointing out the differences in us, declaring the differences illegal and to be snuffed.
Yet at school, in our mini societies I remember the same, yet no religion was referenced in my school when the red haired kid was bullied, nor was scripture quoted when I was bullied for simply being shy and fey. Just the offence at difference. In a religionless world there would still be them, there would still be us. We would still have those whose ancient tribal mentality bubbled high in their psyche. The ones who see their own circle as us, to be defended against them. This is not religion, this is our own tribal nature. Perhaps even, the peaceful are missing their fighting instinct.. are faulty for being awash with empathy. Even devils advocate would call that folly. We strive for better, for peace. Regardless if it is a flaw in our fighting soul..
I looked for joy in possessions, but found joy only in the splinter between buying and bought. In sex joy resides, yet after the chemicals subside joy falls gently away. In drugs of all kinds the joy is sought, yet the ride is short and fraught, with barbs of poisonous effect.
So I paused and watched within. I found my life’s electricity my most reliable joy, with me till my end.
Should this page bear colour as recommended, or should it remain sparsely splendid?
“Well, aren’t you adorable”, she says to me, emphasising the you (as if she needs to say that “this is not me time, this is someone else, but I’ll be damned if I’m spending time pronouncing the adorable for some irksome underdeveloped crotch spawn that just cramps the vibe at parties”). Then she gives me a tight cold hug that impales me on her earring.
Disdainfully she turns away from me, to scan the cabinets for alcohol. She is offered white wine or beer. She grudgingly settles for Baileys found at the back of a cupboard behind some vintage Babycham glasses. I can feel that my presence is stifling the adult conversation. So I retreat to my room and listen to the mumblings through the wall as I tip the lego from my bucket.
The nostalgia show. There they are on the stage, the songs you remember from your youth. The faces have changed, the drummer is someone’s son. The original singer is there, yet the mane has long gone and his face is ashen. Looking around, time has taken it’s toll on the audience too, they sway and swoon with eyes to the moon. Trying to capture those yesteryears through sound and image. Dust of the past passing through the fingers.
C’était Un Rendezvous
A movie by Claude Lelouch, a favourite of mine for many years. Claude they say, drives his Ferrari 275 through Paris early in the morning, no preparation, just goes for it full on, like a cop at a protester. It’s a silly adrenaline fuelled piece dear to the keen driver’s heart. A few years back a learn’t that he was not driving his Ferrari at all, but just a Mercedes saloon, with a dubbed soundtrack. It lost it’s gonzo nature right there, and turned into fiction. Yet the other day I thought, well, I still love the X-wing scenes through the Deathstar trenches in Star Wars. Though I’m pretty sure they are not real X-wings.. maybe it is the fact I am sore I was fooled.
Clean shaven, for all his heroes are the same. Chin as clean as his conscience. Not from lack of sin, from lack of care. No tears are shed.
He has things, collects things, cars, jewellery. Nature is just things too. Lives to strut and Intimidate. His girlfriend is another thing, to be seen and used.
He has no concept of empathy. I do not know how or why he acts this way.
I just know he is the most destructive force on this earth.
One year here writing.
Thank you to those who read my words, and to those who enjoy my words.
I hope you are of a fairly similar number.
In times past we could not capture our nows for the future
They fell away to morph into far fetched storied culture
The monsters are getting smaller in our fishing trips
Wonder walked away when the cameras took grip.
The world is sewing snow
where there should be petals
winter sits in spring’s place
cold has a ticket to the past
Hold on tight throughout the ride
And when infinity ends, I’ll be with you still.
Each soul is a previously unknown colour of light.
There are folks out there who would walk coals for you, just for being you.
Keep believing they are there, they could rescue you at any moment.
Life is wonderful, then you transform.
When I complain of our present time, it is not the past I long for, it is the future. Time taken shape into wisdom, the wisdom into peace. Perhaps some selfishness, as the world changes in generations, not in years. I wish for the world of our future generations. But I will be long gone while Shangri La blooms. I shall tend my escape, blinkered to my own Eden.
We have been told of choice’s importance to freedom so much that we actually believe we need so much choice. We are consuming ever more to create choice, to create market competition, to further our production of stuff. I looked at the Argos website the other day, there are over two hundred different vacuum cleaners. Do we really need over two hundred different vacuum cleaners? And this goes for everything, choice is more destructive than progressive.
Sure I have seen trees before, thousands and thousands of them, but this one took my attention, she seeming to strut in place. I looked up the trunk and was suddenly in awe how this magnificence came from such tiny beginnings.
At the end of a warm spring day, we picked the perfect day’s ending
We sat on the beach, watching the sun quenched into the ocean
The pristine clear blue evening sky turned copper and cobalt
We watched till the last light’s flicker, the sun’s last flourish,
to give the ocean’s prancing horses silver manes.
The most important thing to learn, is to love.
Some get so hung up on the complexities
They forget to learn the basics.
He has a furrow between his brow you could lose your keys in. A buttery complexion and a stiffness to every joint. He is held together by bitterness and fear. His cast iron constitution continues to bless us with his presence. Neither heaven or hell wish to take him. He may tell us of all humanities faults forever. I sit in his living room in a tacky chair. Both tacky in design and due to the film of scum on the arms that stick and pull at the hairs on my arms. The old man lets out a wheezing sigh and starts to creak, his bones slowly rise from his chair. As he passes near there is a stench so strong I can feel it against my eyes. I go to stir my tea, pushing the spoon through a film that wraps around the stem as I twist it. I leave it standing in the curdling tea. He returns and tosses a parcel onto my lap. Wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string. He looms over me and says “Open it”. I pull at the string’s bow, the paper opens revealing a book. Yet another bible stares up at me.
There is much isolation to introverted singledom. One that can stay for a long while, it requires much will to overcome. If overcoming it is sought at all, for some seek only isolation. I feel I need some company, it is so easy to lose touch with all, to become a hermit, avoiding the hassle of people, but missing the interesting and the love.
Walking in a crowded street, the introvert can feel more isolated than if sitting alone in their room. When I venture into the throng, nervous energy drains me with every group of souls who come near. Within an hour I am looking for escape, to find a deserted street or get back to the solitude of my car or home.
When I return to my car, I get the feeling of increased confidence, a literal and figurative shell of protection. I enjoy the confidence this tin shell provides. Before I have to shed the armour and face the world naked again.
Lately there is loneliness everywhere, little joy in the outdoors, little comfort in being home alone. As uncomfortable as I am with crowds, I need another soul to be with, to help me breath in the massing shoal of men. The bubble surrounding me is so fragile, I can almost feel it cracking as the hustle and bustle brushes against it. Yet with another I know and love, the bubble is strengthened ten fold, I can survive longer in the crowd.
Blame Autumn for Winter
the golden leaf’s doom
Thank Spring for Summer
bursting back into bloom.
The honey bee she floated right by me
heading beyond the sycamore tree
she returns to her busy hive
to keep her honey dream alive.
Do not fret when you see the bee
she will not stick her barb in thee
she wishes to chill and to bee free
her barb is just for emergency.
Listen to the tone of a buzzing bee
mellowness should be clear to thee
agitation changes a buzz musically
high and fast could make you flee.
I heard her thrum before I saw her struggle
the bumble bee could use some help from me
a drop of honey and my heart takes flight with her.
A dull ache in my left arm, from shoulder to wrist. A trapped or aggravated nerve I think. Now my hand and neck start to ache too, into my chest and to my head. How far will it spread? My Father had tightness across his shoulders, and cold sweats, he had a stent fitted. I worry that I am having a heart attack too, I manifest the second symptoms, my heart begins to race, I sweat. A panic attack. I take an aspirin and calm, attempt to convince my heart to slow. In the morning the aching has abated, yet I still wonder.
We are winning every day,
Death only wins once.
Though he wins last..
We return and play again.
The bird scowled at the world. It did not bother to flap it’s wings. It was fed so fully, that it’s legs could not even help it stand. It sat in it’s fine feathered nest, “Feed me!” it squawked all day and night. The more it was fed, the louder it squawked. One day a thought occurred. No food came to the bird. Peace came. First a terrible smell, then peace.
Walking the street just a few miles from my home at around noon. It begins raining gently in the sunlight. That odd beautiful rain from nowhere. The ground is barely noticing as each drop turns back to vapour almost instantaneously.
I recall a few years back before the world managed to find common ground. Back then every difference aroused suspicion and fear bred anger and violence against our fellow man, what foolishness. Now each creed, colour and religion is open and welcoming to the other. The newspapers are full of stories of collaboration between nations to build a greater world.
Walking past the Johnson’s place, a reminder. As it starts to rain a little harder, water washes down the face of the alien creature’s head as it stares resolutely from a spike in the front yard. In years, perhaps we will make peace with these folks too.
I watch the skateboarder,
their elegant form gliding.
I stand on the board,
I declare it witchcraft.
The crow sat a top a telegraph pole
sedately just like Eckhart Tolle
he was admiring a sticky bun
just a little frivolous fun.
Sometimes I get the feeling that politicians don’t see the needs of the many.
Just the opportunity to manipulate their surrounding to their advantage.
Just subtle hints here and there..
Why feed the starving when you can fly to Mars,
Collect some more dust, pretend at progress
Give yourself a huge round of applause,
Plant a silly flag, knock yourself out.
I’m surprised I didn’t break my neck
As I looked back at the twisted wreck
I rolled the thing five or six times
That is my one and only crime.
Another atrocity seen
shove it down and away
deep into our psyche
another knot in our soul
what else to do
in our impotence.
But settle down, meditate in the happy place
all that mess is elsewhere, let your smile permeate.