Light fantastical

And - oh, I just start writting, thats the plan.
In her eyes there is light - in everything there is light.
In everything, in every particle, at the heart of everything, there is light.
Thats what she said.
Unlike me, she reflected on her words, they had meaning, they could be seen and heard.
When I was asked to repeat what I had said I couldn't,
I had not known what I would say and I couldn't recall what I had said when asked to lift the things up to be seen more clearly - the words were dead before they were formed.
I think people find this unsettling.
We open a box with words, dig about, stir stuff up.
I don't know when I'm going to do it and when I am asked "why?" and "what?"
All I know is that whatever it was has gone.
I think that this what this stuff does to me.
All of this thinking, all this talking - symbols and stories fishing about for a meaning that has no meaning.
It stirs things up, words, like long spoons glooping around in the soup.
Essential things that don't fit words come to the top like those wierd fish from the ocean floor.
Bug eyed, big teeth - dying (quick - gone) before our bewildered eyes.
We always see them dead or as they take their last breath.
Like the workings of the day or the innards of a cat - laid bare, dead.
Light is light, I think - and the dark is when there is not enough of it for me to see.

Here - don't darken my day with your thoughts and words of hope and joy :-)

This may not be here - words are not enough to explain where and when we seem to be.
I put you in a box - stay in there you fucker!
How can I know me without knowing you and you keep getting out - I'm sealing down the lid.
In there I know you are glowing with right and truth - in there, in there I have all I need to know and to see and to be with and to have and to hold until death us do part.
I sense you in there - I may put you in a cupboard for safety sake.
I'm keeping the beauty looked up, out of harms way - stay in there you fucker.

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!

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.

The Cloud Potato Man

I am the cloud potato man
clocking all around
I see you ~ I see that
I see the worms from underneath
and the birds from above
You, and they, are fiddling

Thank you - lovely words

"Your mind feels nice when I tune into
rosy-gold amber waves
warm peaceful light"

Thoughts

Thoughts, like the weather, come and go
They are as true as the moment
Listen to the wind

Know that as the wind - as the sun - as the rain - all may change

Drink the drink while it washed our thoughts away
to the sea
the the clouds
to the trees

In the trees - thoughts.

What shape will you be to day Sir?

"Oh, I'm not sure, perhaps thicker at the top, tapering to a point near the floor - like a wedge on its pointed end please."

"Certainly Sir - I have just the tool for the job".

For an hour or so a most frenetic activity and buzz filled the small leatherette lined room. A fug of pain, a slashing of knives and the swift snitsnitsnit of neat little stitches.

Some time later the job was complete and the man tried to stand - but oh, he could not, not upon his pointed end.

"Sir, perhaps we could invert you?"

"You could" replied the man "but how will I walk on my fat ended head?"

"Oh dear Sir, I fear we have gone a little too far towards the artist and a little too far from, well, the practical outdoors-man. I fear Sir that you will need to contract the services of a burly servant to move you from place to place."

Spelling

I hate this now - the sods have taken off the spell check... grrrr.

My expecations

They are so many - and clearly my hopes too.

Hope springs eternal and is the source that flavours so much of my sadness. Hope, that spring of fresh glistening life that trickles away and leaves just so much mud.

Up on my heels - an anchor for strength. Strength needs hope and hope springs eternal and is the source that flavours so much of my sadness.

Mud and more sucking mud - but hope springs eternal, it is a stuck record, hope, hope, hope... without it there is nothing but all it brings is hope that springs eternal and flavours so much of my sadness.

Take a joy - watch it bloom in a milk-bottle filled with water - a full bottle will still be nearly full long after the joy is gone.

So - take this hand, please - oh, you have gone.. false expectations, I should know better but at least there is hope.

Mary Words

Words for you - my words today for you.
Joy, strength, laughter and love.
Words I know you by - just a small part of you, illustrated badly as my words do.
Words do not describe the dawn the sun and earth as well as just loving and being with you.

It is though good to write words for you where I know, for sure, you will not read them

Pxxx