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!

Art and stuff

Friday night, Saturday morning - dancing, gurning, smiling. Excellent.

And in the morning there was a mixture of beauty and vomit - neither of which were mine. We'd had a good time - Mary paid for hers with shakes and vomiting.

I found beauty in everything and wanted to be inside and through everything and everyone - to be at every place in time all at once, to be so deeply immersed in life, joy, pain, death, fever, laughter.... to burst out of my skin and make love to the world.

I dreamed of art - a dozen images of photographs; clipshots of reality. Close-ups of confusion and my usual want for surreal images of flesh and the weather. Corners of mouths, just the folds of skin, the roots of hair, pebbles on the beach, elbows, eyes and ears.

I wanted to be infused with love and to give so much love - to burst out of my skin and let my spirit and soul blend and dance with the world. White clouds merge into the grey, shifting and blurring through the storm; the last leaves cling to trees torn by the sea-wind and freezing rain. A few herring gulls glide and plummet, swoop and steal flashes of light.

Just one mag-pie - "good morning Mr Magpie, hows your wife and kids?".... actually, there is a mag-pie and a crow, I wonder if that affects the ditty... one for sorrow, two (well and mag-pie and a crow) for an excellent Friday night.

I think that has made as much sense I as intended. Love and stuff. Px