The pond is near dried out, once beautiful cartoon like creatures lay still, dying, one by one they speak their tail, eloquently, their words clear and strong. And then, i easy the sounds as the other people, disgusted, standing staring hear them, just as gasping, deathly noise. A man is holding a near dead, but plump and otherwise healthy gold fish in his hand. Showing the fish to another man, both dressed in tweed. I motion that they could put the fish back into the healthy water, but they want to watch it die.
I move on and the fields are dry grass and being cut, along their whole width, all at once, the cut grass falls as in a wave, knee deep towards me. A young man knees ahead of the wave, unaware, but the cutter, unseen, takes no notice, its not important. The young man is turned over smothered in cut grass
Im trying to get somewhere, i don't really want to go, back beyond the pond. To a wedding. The rocks are wet and slippery under my hard shoes. I am nervous while a man, Im not fond of him, chatters and distract me. I watch my footing and inch on, getting late and anxious. I realise, through my distraction we are now hundreds of feet above the river, near the top of a near smooth sided cliff that curves around us. The rock is smooth, wet and weeded. The terror of the height sickens me, Im standing, heels to the cliff as if walking down hill but its a cliff and I need to turn and climb down facing the rock but its too slippery to move, and I know that when a turn it will be too dark to see my footing down. I wake, its my choice, escape my own dream. Sickened, laying in bed a regret waking. I want to go back there and screw the dream, the fears that drag me and press me, i just want to jump, knowingly to die more than to suppress myself with fears.
I have started to do that in nightmares - often they culminate in my being in some position of being trapped high up with my fingers and toes loosing grip but still never quite releasing me so I stay in terror. I woke out of this one and wanted then to get back into it to just jump. But, when I do stay with it, in sleep, in the dream, and take the haha fuck it and jump option I just fall and die - there is not flying to another land or some release. Just like in Amsterdam, I just witness my own death in vivid 4D repeated endlessly in the finest possible detail and from my perspective and from all of those, simultaneously, that know me - those that I know who love and those I know who are indifferent.
Stories write themselves in dreams, they take the things and materials inside our heads and construct themselves, free will is only as effective as a light breeze, shifting the dream but not controlling it. When I control them more strongly they simply merge into reality and continue after I have woken - the dream elements, fear, paranoia, despair, loss, rejection, abandonment, failure - they just become real entities played out in symbols as some people, not me, project human personalities on animals, I project, and thereby reflect my terrors, into others and generate, in my perception, their hatred and disdain of me.
But, as we know, there is not fighting fear and terror or pain. It is only us, ourselves. Fighting it is just tearing at ourselves - we/I need to face it, know it; its not the weather, a storm, a high-cliff; its what our heads are up to, poor things. Fear needs bold, brave (as it is scared as well as scaring) limitless love... what else is there to do?
---"tail" - dyslexia allows me to tell a tale of turn-tails without spotting the terror of spelling - and only when I read my words, with the eyes of a "teacher" (those allotters of status), do I spot (my teacher's red-pen in my slapping-hand) that upon my tail there is a sign, pinned, that reads "upon this tail there ends the tale of a fool who would not spell no matter how much told he should".
Monday, June 24, 2013
Words again
Words ain't going to help you. I love them, but they are just drugs. I used to wonder why people did them, words.
With their merry delusion of clarity, poetry and, that myth, understanding. Communication yes, but of what. I was right, my only failing was (shit the fucker is on the tip of my tongue - one word following) my ability to turn that knowing into symbols, sounds, words, written-downs, speakings and all.
And now i get it, the addiction to them and the missawareness that we are all doped by them. They take us, listed, to the shops, call out in the dark, whisper sweet nothings, and lie. . .
Its just the drugs, multi colours, dimensions and other such words. . . They become the fabric of our very meaning and yet they are not meaning. There only is, there is no meaning and test that by asking if that makes sense.
Trip the shite fantastic, dip in ancient ponds, wake to dawns of perfect silicon. A drug you dare not stop, kick it at silent peril, numbed, all there is is what there is is what there is - and, so a wise man said, so it goes. There, without you go your words.
With their merry delusion of clarity, poetry and, that myth, understanding. Communication yes, but of what. I was right, my only failing was (shit the fucker is on the tip of my tongue - one word following) my ability to turn that knowing into symbols, sounds, words, written-downs, speakings and all.
And now i get it, the addiction to them and the missawareness that we are all doped by them. They take us, listed, to the shops, call out in the dark, whisper sweet nothings, and lie. . .
Its just the drugs, multi colours, dimensions and other such words. . . They become the fabric of our very meaning and yet they are not meaning. There only is, there is no meaning and test that by asking if that makes sense.
Trip the shite fantastic, dip in ancient ponds, wake to dawns of perfect silicon. A drug you dare not stop, kick it at silent peril, numbed, all there is is what there is is what there is - and, so a wise man said, so it goes. There, without you go your words.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
This one
This one is just for you - my friend.
You are all that there is to me and yet I am loosing you - fearing loosing you.
You say that you don't know now; that you have not known for some time, but you don't know how long.
Well, you say, from that time when you think that I did something so wrong and, unlike you, I know that I did not but I do know that you may never even try to believe that.
I think you have a coldness - I don't think its yours, you were given it and you still have a hold of it when you could have let it go, put it down, kindly said "thanks, but no".
You have, for me, lost your fire and I should, should... should such a word... leave you be really. Cut my losses and walk away as I have before. Cut the albatross from around my neck, killed the fucking goose of endless unrequited promise.
This though, I'm not prepared to do - my loss is too great. It not just you that I loose but my boys, my time and so much more.
Things and people - those attachments - my codependent time-travelers. I should know better, know that they only .... no, not "they". I only let them cause me pain.
What I feel is what I do. And, of course I have choice, the choice to cut the rope and drop into eternity, endless falling or to continue to hang here constricted, choking and die.
You are all that there is to me and yet I am loosing you - fearing loosing you.
You say that you don't know now; that you have not known for some time, but you don't know how long.
Well, you say, from that time when you think that I did something so wrong and, unlike you, I know that I did not but I do know that you may never even try to believe that.
I think you have a coldness - I don't think its yours, you were given it and you still have a hold of it when you could have let it go, put it down, kindly said "thanks, but no".
You have, for me, lost your fire and I should, should... should such a word... leave you be really. Cut my losses and walk away as I have before. Cut the albatross from around my neck, killed the fucking goose of endless unrequited promise.
This though, I'm not prepared to do - my loss is too great. It not just you that I loose but my boys, my time and so much more.
Things and people - those attachments - my codependent time-travelers. I should know better, know that they only .... no, not "they". I only let them cause me pain.
What I feel is what I do. And, of course I have choice, the choice to cut the rope and drop into eternity, endless falling or to continue to hang here constricted, choking and die.
Light passes from spark to eye.
Spoken words and written words.
Voices from different selfs. Not all of my selfs. I'm not sure there is a self.
Just those that want to speak outside of my head.
Communication, the process by which thought passes from mind to mind as does light from spark to eye.
|
Linking us: are we even there? here?
When I shut my eyes I am not sure if I am here or even there.
In comes that tram - again. It carries with it memories from then to now.
Communication through time.
Linking us: are we even then? now?
Nothing, as so often seems to be the case, is certain.
Motion, such an odd concept when all is moving - ultra-normal. Only stopping is of note. From me to you - in mysterious ways.
The Floor
The floor is not there but we are not falling and neither are we still.
All is moving; change.
Watch the lights and listen to the bells and this, for us, will end.
And the pebbles on the beach are turning to sand. I watch them and know this. If all were made of stone suggested Jack - all things I asked - the air, the sea, all things.
A fine stream falls - time marked out but there is no need to turn the timer. The sand moves both ways - all ways, time does not move from place to place. Place moves - time stands still and we move past in flashes of momentary lights and bells.
Choice, brings the fear of death. With all that we accept we say no to all other possibilities and they are dead to us. Our past, a place stopped but still moving.
Nothing makes sense, it always has but I didn't know it. Only nothing can make sense.
Motion, such an odd concept when all is moving - ultra-normal. Only stopping is of note. From me to you - in mysterious ways.
All is moving; change.
Watch the lights and listen to the bells and this, for us, will end.
And the pebbles on the beach are turning to sand. I watch them and know this. If all were made of stone suggested Jack - all things I asked - the air, the sea, all things.
A fine stream falls - time marked out but there is no need to turn the timer. The sand moves both ways - all ways, time does not move from place to place. Place moves - time stands still and we move past in flashes of momentary lights and bells.
Choice, brings the fear of death. With all that we accept we say no to all other possibilities and they are dead to us. Our past, a place stopped but still moving.
Nothing makes sense, it always has but I didn't know it. Only nothing can make sense.
Motion, such an odd concept when all is moving - ultra-normal. Only stopping is of note. From me to you - in mysterious ways.
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