Sunday, July 10, 2011
Rhythm
Rhythm, the speed at which we tick.
Most people keep a fairly steady pace, fast as children, slower as adults, slower still as they age and then stopping.
They tick at their own rate and, as their hearts are still new, find themselves attracted to those with different rhythms to their own - new dances.
But, as they spend time with each other, ticking, and need to depend or wait on one another, the miss-match between them jars.
They are fixed as they are at that stage of their life.
Their mates are too stressfully buzzing about or too slowly dragging them down.
Dancing to 2 or 3 rhythms is too hard and people grow tired of their lover's tiresome steps.
Some of us have clocks that shift and drift with the wind and time and waves
We do the rhythm of the waltz or polka and some of us just love to tango
- some of us just love to can-can and do the fucking pogo!
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Wet With Words
The words I say are not true, always (and never) remember that.
They are an impression of me
You may interpret them as having me-meaning
My words appear to fall in patterns and from these rhythms and tones you find meaning
You may believe there is purpose in what I say
But when a rain drop falls and splashes onto the ground what does it matter to the cloud that dropped it?
If we believe the clouds, the weather, the whole of life, has meaning we might seek to know that meaning and perhaps to find it, or create it where there seem to be gaps - there are gaps.
But it, and us, and especially me, just exist.
The cloud drops the rain with no meaning
And yet in ponds and rivers and in the sea life plays out and we talk and talk about its meaning
Words, like water, mean every bit and every little as everything I say.
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