Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Notes from the last two months

April blooms and fevers

Sip stale tea, keep pacing, room to room to half room. Watching the fascinating effects of capillary action as the cloths become wetter and wetter in the bucket. Chaos and Chronos in the eternal battle. Bed takes up too much space, I could dance there, build a model papier-mâché volcano, play volleyball with the wall. I talk to the doors and they creak. I drank lime all day. My face smells citrusy. I have come to loath arguments because I am bored easily and I empathize too much to get through with it. My fingers are stinging. I want to eat this nimbus cloud gathering overhead bit by bit. I want to read and read and read and read. My phone is dead, this summer I dread. There is something so enticingly brittle about the air, it hangs like a fresh cream-biscuit dipped in tea, allowed to soak so thoroughly until it is butter-soft and shaking slightly between ones fingers. Taste buds are so limiting, I want to see what lies beyond this spectrum of senses. The hot black cloak of fever has been lifted from my back, I killed the frogs prancing in my throat. I am well.

Random cat by the pork shop

Every day should a piece of poetry, every second should exude poetry. Your body should weep conifers and ferns with every exhale, take in the intricate verses of the air with every inhale. There is poetry in each rustle of these blooming trees, in the thickening dregs of my tea, in my headache, in the horrifying news I read each day. There is poetry when my blood boils with helpless anger, in the quiet, cowardly way I try to fight the system, in the nonchalance with which we approach every day wear and tears, the broken flush, the torn clothes, the dead phone. Poetry is not just a noun, it is a verb...when the sublime beauty of the most ordinary thing, gesture or sight makes you pause for one breathtaking moment, your soul poems....

Last year, before the rains
I want to paint my walls with instant coffee; sleep in the fragrance. Peel off a bit of the landscape, sniff, eat. Examine the contents in your face. Don't erase anything with antiwrinke-fairness-anti-spot-darkcircle removing-anti-tan-anti-expression-anti-simplicity creams (its an international conspiracy to keep you suspended in this corroding emulsion called everydayness) instead, decipher those marks, read between the lines, connect the dots, translate the dark circles, don't forget your story, interpret the voice of your skin, its sighs and screams. If I didn't have such a massive consciousness I'd like to swing a dead fish (a rohu maybe) and slap somebody with it; a dead snake would be better. I'll eat the rohu instead, crisp, greasy, peppery, juicy. Dissect sanity, question instinct, unfold chaos, roll out discontent, remember the in-betweens, turn back toes, talk to the shadows, stop walking.

Immeasurable love.  
In the End: 

Death is either the instantaneous gaining of perfect knowledge (similar say to the instantaneous disintegration of stone and ivy composing the circular dungeon where formerly the prisoner had to content himself with only two small apertures optically fusing into one; whilst now, with the disappearance of all walls, he can survey the entire circular landscape), or absolute nothingness, nichto. - Nabokov

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