Blatant Directions

Many moons, many rivers. Many lives, many motors, many homes drowning in flood insurance. Many livers, many lies, many nights behind bars, behind bartenders, demanding service, demanding succor, disentangling the darkness driving us to the only coast without an ocean. The brink, the break, the sink, the slake. Farmers forget the freedom of starving. Sentient sentinels sound the alarms while we walk famously waking, waiting, wishing, luxuriating. Excellent time for a different drift dance down dangerous lanes of loops and hoopty hoops. I channel Seusse, and then change the channel. File this away with all the other materials mistakenly recycled.

Behold the beakers filled with multicolored liquids. Behold the dim, dank laboratory, left for dead with the dreams of miners and minor gods. Mysterious moles move mountains beneath our feet. Believers belie their busted lives. The darkness creeps like colored coded chloroform from mouth to mouth, cough to cough, collecting sad signs of decay. The scene unfolds with a young lad belly up in the rocky soil, bearing his soft tissues to any passerby. Though he knows it’s only me. And what of dreams of response, and responsibilities dreamt and woken from. What is it to turn away from all the work, the maintenance, the constant beating back of bushes and invaders. What is it to turn away. Queue Floyd.

What witness can we bear? Who bears witness to our witnessing, our words, our daily pictures and ploddingly documented dementia? The answer of course, is ever, who cares. You can’t get caught up in successes, in validation, in recognition. First and last, pay the bills, and stay outta jail. Well, mostly. *grin

So, continue on as the wipers upon the shield. Clear and repeat, clear and repeat. Do you begrudge the heart for an overly repetitious rhythm? No, hate not the banal nature of peace. Insult not the gift of boredom, and freedom to dream and act upon a weekend. This, is as good as it gets.

At least we’re posting something. At least there’s seasons to watch come, and watch go. At least there’s damage and recovery. At least there’s games.

Favored fortune finds the fingers filed well down to daggers that drag lazily along. He speaks of past times and past lives, of needs forgotten and dreams betrayed. But there were never really dreams. There was never anything trusted enough in which to commit. There was never anything but the next hill. And god bless the range of hills.

It is a gerbil wheel. And for god’s sake, keep it oiled.

Moon River.

I’m currently reading Alastair Reynolds’ “Revelation Space”.

Passage:

I like the blatant directions he pushes your imagination in.  “Brutal hygiene” Marvelous!  This is stark work choice. This is branching dendrites. I always feel smarter after reading his pages, more “with it”. Something like the effect of listening to engaging classical music, or Thelonious Monk. 

(Other guy, bring me that Liu Cixin hardback, or I’ll report your truck stolen.)

Anyway, besides all the inner bullshit, and all the outer appearances of calm, of which we all wade through and scaffold up so high…   I just wanted to say Hello, and look, here’s some words.

Let’s continue…