Moving

All future posts will be on my Facts and Fictions blog on Tumblr.

The life you want is never as interesting as the life you lead

The life you want is never as interesting as the life you lead. The life you want is paper flat: 2 dimensional wishes for prosperity, a fiction of the future. It's been said a thousand times that fact is stranger than fiction. Because fiction requires that we understand it. It must be scaled down to fit in our heads. Fact is not restricted by the size of our understanding. It spreads out and defies the human mind to comprehend it. And still we haven't. We've looked at it through magnifying glasses and from outer space but still the intricacies escape us. The big bits too: like how to get along, and how gravity? But here and now in this magical world we do things that we can not understand for reasons we can't comprehend. The consequences will bounce down the halls of the future changing lives, perhaps even after the doer is dead and gone. The present isn't two dimensional, three dimensional or even four dimensional; for we hold multitudes of dimensions within us. Each feeling and thought colours our world and changes the way gravity works and the feeling of the grass. Reality is magical and fantasy is mundane.

Skipping (for Dad)

There's a lot to be said about skipping stones

First there's the joy of the search

You walk to the rhythm of lapping waves

The sun riding high in the sky

Accompanied by a friendly autumn breeze

Acting the part of a conductor

As he gently rustles the harvest leaves and ruffles the water

Head down, you continue

Bending down to pick up the odd rock

Stopping to fit it, just right, to your hand

Then launching it

                            ((.))

              

                                  (.)

                                   -((*))-

Across the pond before it splashes to a stop

More stones defy the depths

But no skip to brag to your brothers about

You continue

Searching for the ideal stone,

That flat, circular rock that fits your hand like they grew up together,

Occasionally stooping in joy only to find the rock in question is round on the bottom

Then, finally, you find it,

The stone your hand has been dreaming of

You hold it with reverence, turning it to find the perfect fit

And when you've found it you get low to the water

And launch it over mirror still water

Watching until it meets it's reflection

                         (((@)))

And splashes below the surface

An underwater skip my Dad used to call them

You hang your head, happy no one is around

Then walk again

Skipping the odd stone

But the all pale in comparison

And the sun hangs low painting the darkening sky

And your shadow has outgrown you

The problems that seemed so pressing have faded

And you've solved most of the political problems of the day

So with a sinking heart you decide,

But what's that?

Could it be?

You push pebbles aside to pick up a damp, dark stone

And it looks good

And it feels good

You turn it in your hand

To find that perfect grip

You wind up

And get real low

But no

It feels wrong

And like a pitcher you stand straight

Pondering the object in your hand and how best to throw it

Then once again you wind up

And get low

To

                  ((((.))))

                            (((.)))

                                    ((.))

                                      (.)

                                        @

                                          :

                                           ;

                                            \

Before it slides into the water with nary a sound

But it's just you and your smile for miles around

So you make your way back to the car

Half an eye to the ground just in case

But deep down you don't find one

And as the sun begins to set

You're satisfied with your achievements

Because in the end you're happy

And in a world of dull office interiors

Joy is a product that is underproduced

untitled

I'm going home to see the stars

City nights are gunpowder
The neon, noise and people
Like fireworks we explode
Drowning out the darkness

Now I'm going home to see the stars

The fantastic push
of the pent up energy
of thousands of people
intoxicates more than wine

But I'm going home to see the stars

That vaulted cathedral
of childhood memories
The bible black nights
and snow white stars

That's why I'm going home to see the stars

To see them salted across the sky
unfettered by noise and motion
to realize the vastness of the night sky
and the true size of my problems

To The Girl I Had A Crush On, (an unsent letter)

How have you been doing? I was thinking of you today. This may come as a surprise as I never said told you, and, for reasons that I don't want to get into here, I never acted on it. Although some of those reasons seem silly now most of them were logical and I stand behind them even now. But that's not why I'm writing this letter. What brought you so forcefully to mind is I dreamt of you last night, and when I woke up it was as if I never left. I wouldn't even have remembered it but I slept poorly last night and the night is a blur of half remembered dreams and the dark interior of a strange room. In that strange stretched time of dreams we hung out for a long time. I don't remember what we were doing but in the end you put your cheek to mine in that fun, flirty way you have and I snatched a kiss. And now I miss you more than I should. It's funny how something as ephemeral as a dream can affect a person with feelings sturdy enough to colour the day. We're cities apart, and last I heard you were dating someone, but still the feelings persist, and no logic can dull them. It serves as a bitter reminder of all I left behind and raises regrets that I thought I had put to bed. And for some reason it pulled this letter from me. I won't send it. I wouldn't know the address to send it to anyways, and I it would add a strange new dimension to our relationship with no purpose. If this was a Hollywood movie I would fail at my new life here and move back, and you would be dating a jerk. We would find each other again, and, on the strength of this dream, you would dump your boyfriend and we would get together to live happily ever after in a montage. I've never liked those movies though. There's always one part where the man does something stupid and"nearly" loses the girl only to get her back a couple scenes later. So this unsent letter will have to do. I hope your boyfriend is treating you better then your last one. I'm still searching for someone like you here. That's an unfair statement, to everyone really, but not an untrue one. I'll look you up when I roll through town next. We'll catch up on old times.
Thinking of you,
A Good Friend.

A few thoughts

The world (fear) is too much with me

The temporal aspects of the world cause fear. We don't want to lose what we have, whether it be the money in our pockets or the respect of a friend. Thus we cling tightly to what we perceive is ours. God, and his divine glory in us, is eternal. In him there is no fear because there is nothing lose, only change or movement. God is everything, so as long as we are in a relationship with God we have everything. That everything may change, but no matter what possessions or honour we may lay claim to it is all God's and will continue to be God's when we can no longer lay claim to it. Everything is available to us through God. It is no less, or more, available if it is in our hands or at the other end of the galaxy. All is God's. Thus "whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it."

The Prophet as scapegoat

All prophets, whether secular or divine, are maligned. That is the risk or speaking Truth. Lies consistently make their way to the top. Lies give gain to their creators. Lies put people over people and allow them to make claim on other people's work. Lies allow people to step on others, to lift themselves up in balloons of hot air. By speaking the truth it takes the life out of the lies that have been painstakingly built up to benefit those in power. That, however, does not necessarily convince anyone that the lies are lies. The truth must be bashed into people's skulls. It is violent and unpleasant. The prophet therefore takes the pain of society onto him or herself to make the truth known in hopes that future generations will see the lies as lies and will be able to move forward. Therefore the pain of the prophet is equal to the truth s/he speaks.

Some feedback?

I remember when we first met. It wasn't that memorable of a meeting so I'm sure I've embroidered it along the way, polished it up after it was tarnished for the first few years. You were unremarkable then. We were unremarkable then. The bar springs easily to mind, as I frequented in those days. I can feel the heaviness in the air, hear the jostle of the young crowd, feel their shoulders bump up against me as I push towards the bar. All that is clear from repeated viewings, but then the night took a very small turn. An unremarkable turn, except for you. I didn't know it then. You were talking with June, probably trying to get into her pants. It's all you thought about those days, you admitted it to me yourself. Her face is of the time, but yours always comes from later on in our relationship, some anachronism from the future.

            It was June that waved to me, no doubt trying to escape your attentions. So I came over and we talked. You introduced yourself and I promptly forgot your name. I remember I forgot your name because the next time we met I did my best to dance around your name so my ignorance wouldn't be revealed. But that first night, when I came over to talk to June you quickly faded away. I smile when I think about how young you were then, how easily deterred. I can hardly imagine what you were like then, a boy fresh out of high school still enamoured with the new world that bars had opened up to you. You were in love with the mess of people I think, and the loose morals that the liquor required. To think of you this way seems almost heretical. I know you would protest the word but it is the closest approximation I can pull out of my brain.

            I don't remember how you came to be in our group. My guess is, and I apologise if I'm off, but my guess is that you just started to tag along because you thought we were cool. We were after all upper-classmen. We could, and quite often did, quote Nietzsche, and Marx. We had read Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Some of us were even writing poetry that had been published in anthologies. I can see how that would have been impressive to a young man fresh out of high school.  I remember you on the outskirts of our little circle well we drank absinthe and smoked our clove cigarettes. And talk until we got kicked out about all manner of 'intellectual' things. Hell, we were infatuated with ourselves and we half knew the lie that sat under our intellectualism. I can see why you found us attractive, as straightforward and sincere as you are.

And when you got back from that trip, oh that trip. What it did to you I'll never know. Not just because you won't tell me, but it scored deep. Somewhere so deep I can't, no maybe won't, go. It scares me sometimes. It scares me that somewhere someone touched you that deep. It scares me to think that someday someone will reach down there in me and touch me too.

            The first time I saw you after you came home: that is a meeting I will never forget. This time the setting is hazy. Once again we were at a bar I believe. I was there with some of my friends and I saw you come in the door. Even from that distance, sitting half way across the room, I could see that you changed. I wasn't sure how, but I knew. It wasn't that I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed about you, like when someone gets a haircut and there's this nagging thought in the back of your brain saying something has changed, it was that the change was so big that I couldn't comprehend it. Not in the first five minutes anyway.

Does it catch your imagination?

clickety-clack

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack
A train rolls in and
heels tap out the rhythm of movement in time with the
Clickety Clack
"All aboard"
The halls resound as people scatter and gather
The fire erupts and the speed picks up
clickety-clack
back into the countryside
Conversations roll with the hills
Clickety-clack
"tickets, tickets"
The conductor shouts over the wailing horn
as his heels drum out their tattoo
counterpoint to the train
staccato laughter rings out of the window
and it's all forward
as the engine begins to glow
the smoke pours out a single dull grey rail against the sky
and the noise of movement swallows up the pastoral sounds
of the birds and the bees
Clickety-clack
Likesome typewriter writing poems of movement across the face of the earth
between cultures and countries and colours
with the same noise that invades skulls to bounce around and around and
click
ety
clack
us into a new world and a new time until we're suffused with knowledge
and we
clickety clack
back out once again

Change

Summer unwinds us from it's soft, stifling embrace
leaving hot skin exposed to cool air.
Soon she'll be gone for good,
her side of the bed cooling with the breeze
from a window that was left open
and the door she didn't shut.
The melancholy emptiness of Autumn
will steal over in unwatched moments,
until the breeze blows cold
and you flip up your collar
and move on.

Take me he said, smiling at the beast. You can have the breath from my lungs, but no more.

A falling out

I've had a falling out with the day

Night and I have separated

because of an ongoing affair with my computer

and work that occupies my time at all hours

Each excursion marked by the awkward pause of my exit,

a surprise meeting with a recently left lover.

"Hello sun" or "Hi moon"

I cast my eyes about

squinting, trying to get my bearings

I don't know where to look,

what to say…

What topics are out of bounds?

Do I ask if she's doing well?

Common courtesy escapes me

I lower my eyes, my brow shading my eyes

and forge ahead. 

Nothing is forever

The city is crumbling. Friends fall away, creating little avalanches of memories tumbling to nostalgic irrelevance. Companies and travel pluck off both enemies and acquaintances to parts unknown. Towers fall taking favourite restaurants and communal wells until you stand alone on a mole hill that was once a mountain, surveying a new world. So you pull on your boot and head out into this new jungle and create again what you once had.

Makes clowns of us all

In compliance to the machine
I clothe myself as a clown
burying dignity under
yards of polyester,
individuality under
swathes of rayon.
And stretch to match,
tooth for tooth,
the smiles of coworkers

Hands out for tips
I beg with
cloying conversation and
put on friendliness
I perform for you
because you are money
and I the worker.
You the mark
I the grifter.

Struggle

The sound of battle
floats over the hill.
It had moved on,
leaving the bodies
still as the earth
to which they return.

A flutter of black wings
calls attention to a man.
Untouched he walks through the dead.
He cocks his head
listening to the cacophony of war
and walks safely behind.

fuzzy details

They slip past unnoticed
like carpenter ants or termites
life goes blithely by
and the roof stays above you
and the walls around you
and all is good
until the details have gnawed away
the solid base of the big picture
and it comes crashing down
around your ears

leading

What's the meaning
of this 10 dollars?
Slipped from sweaty palm
to sweaty palm.
Increased freedom? dinner?
encouragement from God?
The livings and die-ings
the comings and goings
of relationships, insects,
relatives and moneys
all come freighted
(or so it seems)
with meanings too subtle.
Upon these
(butterfly breath) meanings
I place my decisions
placing ideas on intracicies set to topple
betting on shadows and breezes
on coffee grounds and cigarette ash.
In this fickle world of faith
I place my future.

Settling

The faces of classmates and childhood friends

grow more familiar each year.

Faces and stomachs grow
Rounding up over cheekbones and trouser tops

With each pound, growing to resemble

The clerk at London Drugs,

The hotel night manager,

The owner of the corner store
That have always existed.

Stomachs and jowls sag 

weighing down their owners,

keeping them seated in office chairs and la-z-boys.

Swimming through time

the day swims in and out

today, then tomorrow and finally yesterday 

time bends and creaks its
unwieldy frame around my mind

a boa of continuity,

bending me to its will

now and then

present and past

etc.

always it drags me forwards

in figure eights too complex to understand

the past reaches out to the present

and the future pulls a U-y and crashes into the now

the now is never but was and will be

the watch was mans effort to control the fluid

to put it between bars of hours and days

which works, until you think

and time bends in sickening ways

until days have no meanings

and you sleep in the afternoons and take tea at midnight

At the station

in that muddled place between reality and sleep, in T.S. Eliot's shadow. Between thought and action, I neither move nor think. My plane is about to arrive and it has just left depending on your point of view. We could sit here talking of the paradoxes I am experiencing all day but I won't bore you. The thing that scares me is the Devil always meets you at the crossroads, at the in between times and the choices. This is not superstition, this is fact, They say the devil is in the details and they're half right, the devil's in the choices, and the details require so many that you're bound to screw up and give him that crack he's looking for so he can come and ____ your party. Here I sit, unable to make that decision, to close the gaps. My mind is too fogged and my body is empty. Why can't they just open the gates and let me ride free, propel me to my destination so I can begin my decisions again. I can't sit here waiting to meet him. It's sunset somewhere in this world and I can feel the lion prowling nearby, that well-dressed dandy in snakeskin loafers who keeps his mouth in the shadows as he talks so you can't see his forked tongue. You know him when you shake hands with him, those dry hands that make a rasping sound as he slides his hand into yours, pulling you in just a little closer and smiling like he's already got your windpipe. Watch out my friend. Make you decisions and don't linger, keep away from the crossroads and most of all don't go out during sunset; night's bad enough, don't compound it with the slow faze in and out of sunset. My plane's here, I've got to go. If I stay here any longer I'll lose my resolve, I can feel it slipping away already. Never let that voodoo man get you with his promises, remember that.

A world of frills

My muse isn't here yet. She's late again. Just give her a few minutes; I'm sure she'll be here soon. No, I can't just start. What do you think I'm some day labourer? I make Art: and Art can not be made to 'toe the line.' Just wait. You'll love it when she comes.Don't worry about her, she'll make it. There she is, coming through the door. Yes, I see it now. I know exactly what you need. What? No. This. Is. Art. Art doesn't need rules. It's stream of consciousness. This is now. If you wanted ease of understanding and concise work you could get some schmuck off the street. But you got me because you want high quality work. Work that gets inside you and works from the inside out. You wanted that visceral feel that not just everyone can give. That's because I'm not a professional. how many times do I have to tell you? I'm an artist. The run on sentences are intentional. No, the spelling mistakes aren't. This is just a rough sketch, I'll get someone else to correct it afterwards. Comma splice? Yeah, those are intentional too. You just don't understand. I need to get an audience that understands. Just be quiet for a minute. No, wait it's not working.I'm gonna chuck it. I'm finished. Come back tomorrow, maybe I'll be able to get you something then. No, I can't just write it. Just go.