You know that feeling you get, when you're on the beach? You take your first long breath of a sea breeze, and you really feel a kinship with..well.. everything.
I think that is truly the most free I can ever feel.
Enjoying something so much, and knowing that nobody can take that from you.
Feeling like a whole oceans worth of air has just filled your lungs, and you are one with everything.
Eternity stops being scary; it becomes rhythmic.
Billions of conciousness, living in a single entity.
You are insignificant in size, but you are stood in solitude in the middle of the sand filled stage.
You have the entire oceans undivided attention.
You're restless audience bonds closer, and closer to you to try for a better view.
"So this is it(?)"... "this is where our primordial soup hailed from(?!)".
Throwing a metal ship life a champagne cork without a grunt of effort, but were I stand, it's too gentle to make it's way up a shallow sandy slope.
What great story should I act out for the majesty of the sea?
What great speech should I say?
Sorry.
The silence is too golden, and the moment is it's own.
I think that is truly the most free I can ever feel.
Enjoying something so much, and knowing that nobody can take that from you.
Feeling like a whole oceans worth of air has just filled your lungs, and you are one with everything.
Eternity stops being scary; it becomes rhythmic.
Billions of conciousness, living in a single entity.
You are insignificant in size, but you are stood in solitude in the middle of the sand filled stage.
You have the entire oceans undivided attention.
You're restless audience bonds closer, and closer to you to try for a better view.
"So this is it(?)"... "this is where our primordial soup hailed from(?!)".
Throwing a metal ship life a champagne cork without a grunt of effort, but were I stand, it's too gentle to make it's way up a shallow sandy slope.
What great story should I act out for the majesty of the sea?
What great speech should I say?
Sorry.
The silence is too golden, and the moment is it's own.
I love living in the city.
It's a great thing that a lot of the people I know are missing out on.
A unity of human kind, living together in a single commune.
unitary becoming more federal every day. And more communist every decade.
Poles of magnetic importance pull us all from one side of this sculpted
biosphere, like iron filings on wax paper. Some twisted science experiment
preformed by an unknown higher power with a disdain for life bigger than our existence.
At least my cereal bowls have a printed floral design on them. This seems to make
my world have a bigger scale. Compared to those small decorative flowers I am large.
The pattern does not move, or fluctuate so I feel free to continue to compare the abstract frequency of my size too it. And an almost perverse feeling of superiority comes from it.
Probably not far from the emotion we create in what ever is out there watching us in silence...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Truly, to fully understand this century, you have to have lived in a city.
It's a 20th century invention that has shaped our culture, and only now flourished
to be the most shared human living environment ever to have existed.
People still living in 19th century houses have a far better connection to that time than anyone else
as they are almost living as the former owners ghosts. Walking down the same streets, and socialising in the same places.
The City is new. We are the first ghosts, and we are the ones who will be echoed onwards through the corridors of time.
..............................................................................................................................................
I think a lot now about the future. I wonder which country I'll live in when I'm older.
I wonder if I'll ever get married, or have children.
I'm glad nothing like that is set in stone. I need to know that I can do whatever I want.
Living on my own has made me realise how simple it can be to be self reliant.
and how simple it would be to be self reliant anywhere in the world.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I am self aware. I am the only consciousness I can remember, and it is consistant.
I might be the only thing capable of thought that exists, which makes this world my own.
I own this world, and I will recreate it in my own design.
It's a great thing that a lot of the people I know are missing out on.
A unity of human kind, living together in a single commune.
unitary becoming more federal every day. And more communist every decade.
Poles of magnetic importance pull us all from one side of this sculpted
biosphere, like iron filings on wax paper. Some twisted science experiment
preformed by an unknown higher power with a disdain for life bigger than our existence.
At least my cereal bowls have a printed floral design on them. This seems to make
my world have a bigger scale. Compared to those small decorative flowers I am large.
The pattern does not move, or fluctuate so I feel free to continue to compare the abstract frequency of my size too it. And an almost perverse feeling of superiority comes from it.
Probably not far from the emotion we create in what ever is out there watching us in silence...
--------------------------
Truly, to fully understand this century, you have to have lived in a city.
It's a 20th century invention that has shaped our culture, and only now flourished
to be the most shared human living environment ever to have existed.
People still living in 19th century houses have a far better connection to that time than anyone else
as they are almost living as the former owners ghosts. Walking down the same streets, and socialising in the same places.
The City is new. We are the first ghosts, and we are the ones who will be echoed onwards through the corridors of time.
..........................
I think a lot now about the future. I wonder which country I'll live in when I'm older.
I wonder if I'll ever get married, or have children.
I'm glad nothing like that is set in stone. I need to know that I can do whatever I want.
Living on my own has made me realise how simple it can be to be self reliant.
and how simple it would be to be self reliant anywhere in the world.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I am self aware. I am the only consciousness I can remember, and it is consistant.
I might be the only thing capable of thought that exists, which makes this world my own.
I own this world, and I will recreate it in my own design.
**alternative title / melancholic. Alcoholic. supersonic**
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Sometimes the only way to deal with an onslaught of complications is to revert to a child like state.
Like a young sapling bending under the pressure of the wind, through naivety rushing back upright for the next blast of icy gale.
Now I am a little older, I have lost a great patriotism that I once felt for this humble island.
Seeing around me a sea of grey faces, under a grey sky that never seems to break it's scepticism, and cheer up.
Flashes of eastern European grey, bounce around my head as I look from left to right in my current panorama.
This place has added a lot of depth, and integrity to who am I. And for that I am eternally grateful. But I need to leave before the scepticism is bore into my soul like a rat making a nest out of an old cardboard box.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
'There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass' should be written over the British flag.
Like a flower bulb in winter, in a deep meditation until the ground thaws, I too am ignoring the reality where ever possible. Trying to only open my eyes when the world is at it's most colourful, happy and acting as if it where a permanent disposition.
__________________________
Sometimes the only way to deal with an onslaught of complications is to revert to a child like state.
Like a young sapling bending under the pressure of the wind, through naivety rushing back upright for the next blast of icy gale.
Now I am a little older, I have lost a great patriotism that I once felt for this humble island.
Seeing around me a sea of grey faces, under a grey sky that never seems to break it's scepticism, and cheer up.
Flashes of eastern European grey, bounce around my head as I look from left to right in my current panorama.
This place has added a lot of depth, and integrity to who am I. And for that I am eternally grateful. But I need to leave before the scepticism is bore into my soul like a rat making a nest out of an old cardboard box.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
'There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass' should be written over the British flag.
Like a flower bulb in winter, in a deep meditation until the ground thaws, I too am ignoring the reality where ever possible. Trying to only open my eyes when the world is at it's most colourful, happy and acting as if it where a permanent disposition.
Back to the beautiful city.
Such a large scale that people become crowds, and homes become towers.
The Black, white, grey, and chrome theme that runs though Harvey Danger's Apartment is very tasteful. Mies Van Der Rohe would approve.
Sitting on his grey L shaped couch, feeling like a comfortable young professional.
Pushing that fact that he's a penny-less student to the back of his mind.
When did grey stop being boring, and start being stylish?
"I guess boring is stylish..." he says out loud.
Empty living-rooms all around the world - being called 'modern'
although technically they are post-post-modern.. *how incredibly unoriginal.*
--------------------------
What should our age of culture be called?
The age of utilitarianism?
The Protagonistian era
The collective reflective years.
The Age of divided representation - very apt - very spot on. A personal favourite.
2010 - Optimism is sewn in to each and every number.
The New snow is falling slowly, Delicate and heavy on the New year.
Rummaging through his leather and suede satual, he sees what he can find to write on.
His 'Little notebook from Barcelona' (with the antifascist sticker depicting a stick man throwing a swastika in a bin) is the first thing in his hand. He smiles. Every time.
He writes down all his thoughts. Thoughts for architecture. Thoughts for photographs. Thoughts of things that he wants to do. Places to travel to, and people to see.
Pages and pages of his strange handwriting that slants to the left and not to the right flows from the end of his extra inky pen. Black ink, on sepia paper.
He feels relieved. He feels like he has confided in a trusty friend that understands all his thoughts and feelings, like he's accomplished the things he wants to do, just by writing them down.
**************************
*He packs his bag back up. His books, his notebook and pens, and his camera.*
*He looks out of his City apartment window, and watches the snow fall*
"wow.. that is really beautiful.." "Like all those beautiful girls skin, who I've fallen in love with for a breif moment on the street."
The small subtle movement of the snow flakes remind him of how the lights had twinkled in their eyes.
The colour of the pink sky, reminded him of their flush cheeks.
His warmth now, like the warmth he felt then as they smiled at his admirations
His heart is found of all of his brief encounters.
It's just the non-brief ones that leave a bad taste in his mouth.
Coffee, and anything else black. They are the best things in the morning..
--STRONG BLACK--
So there he was. Harvey Danger sat watching American Cinema, under his floral Duvet.
Every film, every new equilibrium, feel good moment, every clear thinking epiphany moment he has taken, and used as if they where his own real experiences.
The orange glow from the screen almost tans his face.
Constructing his life assuming a beginning, a middle and and end.
People he meets are like different Characters interacting with him in the film about his life.
He sees their houses as sets and back drops.
He sees their personality traits being listed,
And written down on so imaginary it's real yellow lined paper.
Another Femme Fatale. Seeing her sexuality as power over him.
No Place For a Women - in his heart.
Mr.Danger does not follow your pre-scripted role.
(and if so, only for the winning moment)
*He thinks of the mind tricks that Sylvia plays...she's dangerous*
The only thing he sees as dangerous as his own train of thought is intelligence.
All women are in some way intelligent, and in some way Ruthless.
Your charms don't work here little girl, I can see the bad intent behind your innocent eyes.
Your crocodiles tears taste the most bitter to me.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
So the cigarette smoke looks better when it's a silver knife on a dark suit.
And the more detail lost, the more your imagination fills in.
Colour in it's brute, and ugly over saturated way allows the viewer to obsess much more.
If you don't know who Levi Strauss is, hit the books. There's no time here to educate.
--BLINDING WHITE--
--STRONG BLACK--
So there he was. Harvey Danger sat watching American Cinema, under his floral Duvet.
Every film, every new equilibrium, feel good moment, every clear thinking epiphany moment he has taken, and used as if they where his own real experiences.
The orange glow from the screen almost tans his face.
Constructing his life assuming a beginning, a middle and and end.
People he meets are like different Characters interacting with him in the film about his life.
He sees their houses as sets and back drops.
He sees their personality traits being listed,
And written down on so imaginary it's real yellow lined paper.
Another Femme Fatale. Seeing her sexuality as power over him.
No Place For a Women - in his heart.
Mr.Danger does not follow your pre-scripted role.
(and if so, only for the winning moment)
*He thinks of the mind tricks that Sylvia plays...she's dangerous*
The only thing he sees as dangerous as his own train of thought is intelligence.
All women are in some way intelligent, and in some way Ruthless.
Your charms don't work here little girl, I can see the bad intent behind your innocent eyes.
Your crocodiles tears taste the most bitter to me.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
So the cigarette smoke looks better when it's a silver knife on a dark suit.
And the more detail lost, the more your imagination fills in.
Colour in it's brute, and ugly over saturated way allows the viewer to obsess much more.
If you don't know who Levi Strauss is, hit the books. There's no time here to educate.
--BLINDING WHITE--
Cheaply made Swedish furniture dreams over.
Mass production imagination caused by "the classics"
a spark of unique thought lasts for a few seconds and is mimicked for centuries.
As a race, humans are about 0.003% efficient.
There he was again. Harvey Danger getting his quick fix of avant-garde in the late night hours.
He wishes he had his own t.v show "the amazing depressing life of a walrus"
The pilot is on youtube, but one user under the name 'crazygal54' said
"Err..I dnt gt it!! Is it lik Cathern tate?" and a one star rating.
And obviously dug a large hole and put his modem in it.
After his small ritual in the garden dressed as a druid,
which made his mother and father very worried
Danger went back inside and pretended he was a Victorian in his claw and ball bath.
Grow a mustache? put on some long johns? .. no.. too far
When did his grandfathers gun become a bath toy?...
"ahh when the duck became too chatty" he recalls to himself.
Looking over at his book shelf he notices a space that used to be filled with stories, is now filled with fact, figures, and dates. At least the conceptual architecture books are an interesting read.
Some interesting surreal science fiction, and some "classics" but nothing to brag about.
God if only he could go back and show all those teachers who didn't believe in him now.
He has his own top hat, and enjoys twining in the bath, in bone china cups.
After his knees are antiquated, and his back is one of the greatest engineering feat
of our age. cast iron. His spine is the ultimate galvanized steel wire internal frame.
--Harvey Danger has logged out.--
Mass production imagination caused by "the classics"
a spark of unique thought lasts for a few seconds and is mimicked for centuries.
As a race, humans are about 0.003% efficient.
There he was again. Harvey Danger getting his quick fix of avant-garde in the late night hours.
He wishes he had his own t.v show "the amazing depressing life of a walrus"
The pilot is on youtube, but one user under the name 'crazygal54' said
"Err..I dnt gt it!! Is it lik Cathern tate?" and a one star rating.
And obviously dug a large hole and put his modem in it.
After his small ritual in the garden dressed as a druid,
which made his mother and father very worried
Danger went back inside and pretended he was a Victorian in his claw and ball bath.
Grow a mustache? put on some long johns? .. no.. too far
When did his grandfathers gun become a bath toy?...
"ahh when the duck became too chatty" he recalls to himself.
Looking over at his book shelf he notices a space that used to be filled with stories, is now filled with fact, figures, and dates. At least the conceptual architecture books are an interesting read.
Some interesting surreal science fiction, and some "classics" but nothing to brag about.
God if only he could go back and show all those teachers who didn't believe in him now.
He has his own top hat, and enjoys twining in the bath, in bone china cups.
After his knees are antiquated, and his back is one of the greatest engineering feat
of our age. cast iron. His spine is the ultimate galvanized steel wire internal frame.
--Harvey Danger has logged out.--
Back in his home town. Stepping back into the subconscious he carried with him.
This place shaped him, but not in the same way it shaped everyone else.
*A black and white film about the human condition*
This will always be a place he returns to.
Once it was such an oppressive domicile, but now it's a place of measurement.
Like looking at pencil lines behind the wall paper of your brothers and sisters,
This town is his yard stick. He compares himself to the boy of three years ago.
A lot has changed since he thought this was home.
---Incense and Autumn still sitting in his bed---Twinges brought to the scars on his heart---
He wonders if the witch is still in the cupboard, *he checks and laughs*
He likes to pretend it's a forgotten fear but there was still real worry..
The smell of the grass, and the sound of the trees.
Looking up to sky like he looks up at the theatre rafters, looking for hidden movement.
Tomorrow with either make or break our young hero.
His rent is due tomorrow. £300. not a bit too steep. Two things could happen...
1. The bank could realize he has no money, but because he is considered such a lovely guy they will pay his rent for him
or... the more likely
2. His landlords could ring our friend Mr Danger, and be very cross. But this will be fine as he already knows what to say, and where his money will eventually come from. His last pay day of 2009 has been paid, and it was seriously lacking.
He dwells on his plot to over throw the monarchy for a while, but not too long
*he writes some figures down on a brown piece of paper, and hides them in one of his shoes*
Tomorrow he might go back to the big city, and find somewhere warm to sit to maybe read and write for a while. Maybe a sketch of a scene to beautiful too forget. His camera would be ideal, but it has been branded intrusive, and stalker like to have it.
"Ahh this world in which we live. It truly gets better every day" he says in a surprisingly un-sarcastic tone
___________________________________________________________________________________
Peace on earth. It's a goal, no a phrase.
This place shaped him, but not in the same way it shaped everyone else.
*A black and white film about the human condition*
This will always be a place he returns to.
Once it was such an oppressive domicile, but now it's a place of measurement.
Like looking at pencil lines behind the wall paper of your brothers and sisters,
This town is his yard stick. He compares himself to the boy of three years ago.
A lot has changed since he thought this was home.
---Incense and Autumn still sitting in his bed---Twinges brought to the scars on his heart---
He wonders if the witch is still in the cupboard, *he checks and laughs*
He likes to pretend it's a forgotten fear but there was still real worry..
The smell of the grass, and the sound of the trees.
Looking up to sky like he looks up at the theatre rafters, looking for hidden movement.
Tomorrow with either make or break our young hero.
His rent is due tomorrow. £300. not a bit too steep. Two things could happen...
1. The bank could realize he has no money, but because he is considered such a lovely guy they will pay his rent for him
or... the more likely
2. His landlords could ring our friend Mr Danger, and be very cross. But this will be fine as he already knows what to say, and where his money will eventually come from. His last pay day of 2009 has been paid, and it was seriously lacking.
He dwells on his plot to over throw the monarchy for a while, but not too long
*he writes some figures down on a brown piece of paper, and hides them in one of his shoes*
Tomorrow he might go back to the big city, and find somewhere warm to sit to maybe read and write for a while. Maybe a sketch of a scene to beautiful too forget. His camera would be ideal, but it has been branded intrusive, and stalker like to have it.
"Ahh this world in which we live. It truly gets better every day" he says in a surprisingly un-sarcastic tone
__________________________
Peace on earth. It's a goal, no a phrase.
In a cold warmly lit bedroom in England, Harvey Danger sits at his computer.
Watching British film. Low Saturation.*nod* nod* *wink* *wink*
In his spiffy dressing gown, holding his hot cockaleekie soup, in an oxtail soup bowl.
The ratio of the bowl to the small plate is probably immaculate, but it's hard to judge.
Brown Bread is the accomplice.
Perfume advertisements selling a repugnant dream that is a far cry from his humble needs.
He's done reading for his life time. Amazing stories make his life seem so dull. His 154th approximately page epiphany , always has him throwing the spine at the wall in a jealous tantrum.
He thinks of how he can run away. Start a new life flipping burgers in New Mexico. Maybe he could be an artist is paris, selling his drawings for meals, selling his body for rent.
*Why not?* he thinks. *It sounds interesting at least*
Maybe a killing spree, causing a life sentence, and front page headlines? not to mention a fearful nick name...mmm.... maybe that's the way to go. Or it would be if life weren't so precious.
Twenty-one. a man now. But still very much the boy.
Injection number four, primed, sharp pain, and forgotten. The Price he pays for colour.
thirty grams of carbohydrate = seven units - here or there -
He is reminded that is it winter by the sharpish need to pull his pants back up
He doesn't mind though. Winter has always felt very mysterious to him.
The way it reminds him of being young. The excitement that Christmas was coming, and snow could break out any minute, and he would be able to play all day.
School Discos. Party games. Old Songs that become more relevant each passing December.
Do we lose our excitement as we get older?
"I do not Love Le Corbusier, like I loved Father Christmas." he says out loud, laughing.
Something he intends not to lose is the love of all things fictitious.
Warm coats and cold days. Waterproof shoes, and deep puddles. snapping dry twigs, and stepping on crunchy leaves. millions of stars, seeing more and more the longer you look.
Winter isn't too bad.
Watching British film. Low Saturation.*nod* nod* *wink* *wink*
In his spiffy dressing gown, holding his hot cockaleekie soup, in an oxtail soup bowl.
The ratio of the bowl to the small plate is probably immaculate, but it's hard to judge.
Brown Bread is the accomplice.
Perfume advertisements selling a repugnant dream that is a far cry from his humble needs.
He's done reading for his life time. Amazing stories make his life seem so dull. His 154th approximately page epiphany , always has him throwing the spine at the wall in a jealous tantrum.
He thinks of how he can run away. Start a new life flipping burgers in New Mexico. Maybe he could be an artist is paris, selling his drawings for meals, selling his body for rent.
*Why not?* he thinks. *It sounds interesting at least*
Maybe a killing spree, causing a life sentence, and front page headlines? not to mention a fearful nick name...mmm.... maybe that's the way to go. Or it would be if life weren't so precious.
Twenty-one. a man now. But still very much the boy.
Injection number four, primed, sharp pain, and forgotten. The Price he pays for colour.
thirty grams of carbohydrate = seven units - here or there -
He is reminded that is it winter by the sharpish need to pull his pants back up
He doesn't mind though. Winter has always felt very mysterious to him.
The way it reminds him of being young. The excitement that Christmas was coming, and snow could break out any minute, and he would be able to play all day.
School Discos. Party games. Old Songs that become more relevant each passing December.
Do we lose our excitement as we get older?
"I do not Love Le Corbusier, like I loved Father Christmas." he says out loud, laughing.
Something he intends not to lose is the love of all things fictitious.
Warm coats and cold days. Waterproof shoes, and deep puddles. snapping dry twigs, and stepping on crunchy leaves. millions of stars, seeing more and more the longer you look.
Winter isn't too bad.
A little scared now that I'm going to wake up for the last few seconds of a faithful day when I was seventeen. Everything from then on being an echo of what should have been.
Alone in a dark and cold room.
I scream but no one seems to hear.
Do I need to be with hard core drug abusers to be around people who think the same as me?
I'm having a terrible times understanding the scale of things around me.
I feel absolutely everything, and nothing.
There are two voices in my head. They are both me... am I two consciousnesses?
The year 2008 means nothing. nothing. Isn't it 1973? that year seems to carry great weight 1642. 1319. they seem so biblical. now we seem to be out of gods reach...
I really miss god. he was great wasn't he?/ she? it? they?
I am a flame burning in a jar, and I am about to suffocate myself. but is it me? or is it the jar?
Alone in a dark and cold room.
I scream but no one seems to hear.
Do I need to be with hard core drug abusers to be around people who think the same as me?
I'm having a terrible times understanding the scale of things around me.
I feel absolutely everything, and nothing.
There are two voices in my head. They are both me... am I two consciousnesses?
The year 2008 means nothing. nothing. Isn't it 1973? that year seems to carry great weight 1642. 1319. they seem so biblical. now we seem to be out of gods reach...
I really miss god. he was great wasn't he?/ she? it? they?
I am a flame burning in a jar, and I am about to suffocate myself. but is it me? or is it the jar?
No comments:
Post a Comment