right on tack

how can you thread the lines across, the seas that toss, those angry waves to slap the cord, to freeze or burn the fraying cotton, tethered now, not forgotten

sharp bits in an overcoat

wet steel barrel is a fine choker

i have the syllables, could neatly say

amateur, wants to make pins of phrases

i tuck my barbs neatly away

fear not, Penelope; some things have changed.

the lovely layout is dead.  I don’t have the source files and I wouldn’t know how to put humpty dumpty back together again anyway.  Survived by Fritz von Runte, father (design) and Karolina Lach, mother (typography).  R.I.P.

I am caught in the undertow of study – everything in my life at this moment demands my complete attention lest any one thing slip. No idle hours spent crafting the cheeky novel or digging up family skeletons.  Every minute is spent attending to the here, the immediate and the now at the expense of everything else (and probably my future in some sense).  I am feeling the years accelerate and I am terrified that I lost my balance so easily.  I miss fitness and freedom and time.  But i’ll get there.  I have made some commitments and I will feel infinitely better when they are acheived to completion.  My odyssey has turned – I have escaped the embrace of the siren and am heading home – I reinforce my boat with anything I have to face Poseidon head on in the coming years, whenever that may be.  AT LEAST I have reached some fluidity with my life, the rhythm is natural, so much that I am not conscious anymore of every agonising minute.  I am living now, in present time completely.  Sod the rest for the moment, because it has only given me the perspective I needed to do exactly what I am doing right now.

no dialogue.

you know, carelessly. the buzzing sensation that deepest layers of skin feel after the tight grip unclasped.  and no other hand can retune the nerves to the place before where synapse spakes to core and encouragement, voice leads you to ingenious places.  gone are symbols, signs and places, peeling apart the surfaces of what was built.  the product of innattention – the face is turned completely and the nape of the skull has no eye to judge you nor face your points, endeavours – no scowl to chide your weaknesses. no dialogue.  there is no voice; the vibration of the throat does not transmit the spine. it is not mine, it is something other and i adore that but, i struggle with the lack of dialogue. no interest in the core between before, but only forward moving then and therefore now no maintenance.

so there are two voices then. the discord twangs and i dig my heels in as i try to sing accompaniment. but some acts are solo, and each project as i go becomes less delightful when is not as you imagined. no partner, no. the insect on the wing a mere annoyance, the input buzzing ruffling feathers. i bury deep and sleep, the fluffing shaking, juttering me. i hope no windy turbulence unseats me.

how different than i see myself. the roots i offer grow the motions up; can give a good thing life. through earth more water travels than to throw the puddles up, and only get wet. careful checks can help from unplanned hassles to beget. discerning so, carefully so, patient yet. each plodded trod deliberate, each good intention set.

the other side

there ain’t no up there’s only out
no running left if you’ve got gout
can’t find the hole to crawl and die
just kick the body to the side

you’ve got to choose there isn’t time
to ponder on what’s yours and mine
i have the truth somewhere outside
but i’m too tired to run

you’re far too sure, you must be wrong
you don’t struggle all along
it’s just shell if it is strong
and i won’t knock to see inside

your sweet little songs won’t wet my appetite
your sweet little voice is too pure to be right
your soft little hands are just too clean
your big green eyes ain’t seen what i’ve seen
if you understood then you’d agree
there simply isn’t hope for me

just turn me upside down to smile
or do one of your pretty handstands
you can be the one to make the plans
you can be the one to make the plans

they must engineer these fucking songs in a lab

i don’t normally get this angry but…

after hearing a certain new track once that shall remain nameless (i don’t want to publicise something i hate), dismissing it and never hearing it again, i just spent what felt like two hours dreaming of a fictional gossip-chick-nausea show that i would never even watch on a sick day, with this god-awful track as the backing. on loop.

i feel violated.

gluttony

look at me, isn’t it great
i’ve got failure on a plate
gonna weigh my body down
gonna weigh my body down
life is clear when you’re not here
the perfect garnish of a tear
gonna weigh my body down
gonna weigh my body down
i’m a drummer beat is true
but no strings left to snare on through
gonna weigh my body down
gonna weigh my body down
sky is wet, heart is bleak
darling will you shut your beak
gonna weigh my body down
it’s not serious, it’s not real
when you’re drowning you don’t feel
gonna weigh my body down
gonna weigh my body down
you talk the sun, sometimes the moon
talk all you want baby i won’t swoon
gonna weigh my body down
gonna weigh my body down
money’s the win, only the game
don’t you dare smile girl it’s not the same
gonna weigh my body down
gonna weigh my body down

i need more
i need more
walk out to the alley and shut the door

knowing nothing

it does not exist
wet behind the ears
sulky fingers
you’ve got the nerve
you’re grumbling, dragging
and i’ll come flailing along
whatever you want

so large and naive
floating kind of me
big dreams, average feet
making you angry
to fly your achy soles
must leave the ground
gravel hurts my toes and i’d rather float
but what do you know
you’re the oceanless boat
tying me at the line
whatever you want
every time

let’s find you the tide
please, let’s find you the tide
i don’t have enough strength to pull you
left inside
gravel hurts my toes and i’d rather float
but what do you know
you’re buried in sand
praying for snow

Brazil

In Rio, reflecting upon how much my life has changed. This year has been full of travel and excitement, but 2010 will be about planning for the future. I have so many things left to accomplish. It’s a humid pause here while I drink matte and think about it. I hope I can find time for myself, and to continue cataloguing here.

transit

i’m leaving.  it’s happening. tomorrow i go to Las Vegas to clear out, and then when I return I spirit off to England on the same day.

i’m rendered speechless by the whole affair