As Always
When you came on the scene, I thought you were a
cloud in the night sky. I thought you were evaporation from the dream of
distant galaxies. A thought of the smiling constellations. Reflection.
When you conquered the communication channel in
which I dwell, I thought you were an echo borne out of noise from
communicational tunnels. I thought you were a picture that I couldn’t paint,
couldn’t take. What a sight, I thought…I even thought it was a story.
When you taught me to walk like the look of the
child blatantly unaware of the notion of mystery, to talk like an athlete whose
muscles demand reprogramming, I thought there must have been at least dozens
solar systems, since the orbit known to me encircled three.
--yo picture is wierd.
-- .
I cocooned myself in a steamy tail chasing its own
source. It enveloped my nights with foggy dreams. It brought the river of
sparks into the clouds cushioning my inky hours. My world became the hourglass
through which orangepurple flow whispered tales of quirkiness, tales of solace.
But, I don’t know when it was. And not because my
memory eludes me. I just don’t know when it was.
--я u familiar with an idea of an o’clock?
-- .
I had no doubt about clouds’ capacity to reflect.
Nor did I need to question the fog’s ability to create a frosty sensation.
Because i am vegan. Being vegan, i eat by sight. My sensuous capability equals
the gleam in the eye of the child while opening a present. I see the swish, as
the snaky dusty waterfall showers the curvy pathways in the hourglass. I see
its soft breath, as it inhales the universe. I used to fantasize static foam
mushrooms. Then you taught me how good damp, obscure corners were for those
false meaty stems. How what looks like a hat is more like an umbrella to them
protecting the roots from lux scorching.
I learned how to differentiate lux scorching from
something else. I know I am aware of the notion of mystery. When one was a wee
kiddie, there was no need to know what mystery was. I do not remember it, but I
know it.
-- .
/ .
***
Back then, days were hot. My skin felt like a crust
forming over a lump catapulted from Mars’s intestines. My epithelium was like
waters on a primordial earth. Its surface was a cacophony of boiling bubbles
brewing amoebae with each burp of the bubble turmoil being transformed
into scales of a reptile shyly testing the
solidity of the dry habitat, slowly moving its heavy armor, with each creaking
move being transformed into a feather attached to the extremity unheard of, overarching the beak between a pair of fierce
eyes slashing the clouds like a razor beam, carving airy tunnels, breathing in
the universe.
Back then, nights were a dark green dream of the
forest submerged in its own reflection in the hidden moonlight. My hair felt
like a silhouette of that obscure monster smeared across invisible transversals
smuggling the mighty rays. Like an ink billow, it rolled through those dark
tubes, like an Alpine lake soothing the fiery cells. Those long stretches of
dark chunks crumbling from chronos’s empire were a gentle oceanic splash
washing the face of the forestry shadow that would reciprocate by flashing a
cosmic smile to the mauve host.
I wrote many a letter back then. In one of them, I
wrote that I’d read the book you’d written. Or, something. I liked to imagine
that you’d smile. I imagined that you’d like it. Maybe you did. Who knows…
I frequently walked as I fantasized about time on
your face. I sent you the objects that I thought incorporated those thoughts of
mine. My thoughts were being generated in the interstices of unlikely seasons
and were enveloped in a cypress whisper (the
river told me a story).
Then, times changed. As they always do.
As they do, so is my thought being consolidated and
crystallized. I love each and every nanosecond of that constant transformation
: all being palephotonized now.
: as long as the thought can be poured down the
walls of an hourglass, the universe can be said to be a source of spotless
indifference, ha!
: as long as winter meets spring in the warmth of a
raindrop, the universe can be said to be perpetual petrol to one’s delite, ha!
: hey yo, sylvan ones : do tho fuel yo
(general) motors, ha?
: as long as one gravitates to solar power, fossils
are kept at bay, ha!
***
I cried a vegan kiss from a cyclone eye to the sky
cracked open by the touch of the lightning cuddling with the thunder. I dreamed
a glistening grain emanating a huskie-duskie reflection of the smiling
constellations. The freshness of a foggy layer wrapping the slopes of the
mountain remains a reminder of that weird alliance. I love each and every mollicule
of it, as it is being spread over the table, having been poured over the rims
of the screens hissing the static into airy corridors snaking around oak
pillars through the mighty / stately castle. like phunk!
/
It was a warm, rainy night. Drizzle clad city was a
labyrinth of bead shards. The streets were awashed in gleam. The pavements were
a mosaic of miniscule ponds quietly shining to the raindrop curtain filling the
pathways of the dormant host. All the shops were closed. Here and there, a
lonely walker would accompany the occasional stir the soft breeze makes as it
licks the shop windows safeguarding inconsolably aloof objects on display.
Lampposts as loyal guardians overarching the tears from the wrinkled bark wrapping
the branches spreading from tree trunks. The air was smeared with lazy
meandering lines, like an extension of those extremities, like trees’ thoughts
snaking throughout the rhizome web. The air was immobilized, despite a sporadic
gentle quiver of the wind. It was a warm, rainy night.
Reflections like beams sending whispery kisses to
the facades. Messages flow. Like the river telling a story. In those vacant
streets, memories collude with the unlikely pixeldom. They are indifferent to
the jungle of suits that occupy them on a daily basis. They see through that
surface that threats to trick. They might not know what lies underneath, but
they sense it has nothing to do with the flamboyancy of the effect produced
through the magic of the fabric, haberdashery, and accessories. They just don’t
care.
Because they have seen a man dressed in rags. His
clothes were dirty and torn. His coat might have been the only thing he had. He
carried no bag. Because he didn’t have it. He didn’t need anything to carry his
stuff. Because he had no stuff. He was poor. And lonely.
Because they have seen a woman wearing a pair of
designer high heeled shoes, a vintage fur coat, silk dress, jewellery worthy of
the man’s dreams of clothes, cars, refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, washing
machines, and a comfortable, welcoming bed. She was wearing a leather bag. She
was well off. And lonely, too.
I always thought those two characters sealed my
thought with the idea of persistence. They confirm my capacity to remember. So
I do. I remember clearly the awareness of the flow of years. I remember clearly
the sensation of each minute being the transfigured previous one. Those
increments of chronos’s empire piled and are constitutive of my perception of
the world.
After some time, they stopped being as exuberant as
before. And yet, those tiles of impressions piled and stored somewhere too deep
to be excavated and extracted remain inalienably inscribed in my vision of the
ever changing world. I like each and every nanosecond of that constant
transformation.
On warm, rainy nights, the city tells me the story
the river told me and keeps whispering it to my
dreams of moonlight oiled with the sparks reflected
from the smiling constellations. like
phunk!
I am aware of the flux that chronos’s empire imposes
on the vision of the world. I knew that flux back then, as well. I remember being
aware of it. Each increment on that weird scale would bring another scale to
the armor of stored imagery of the years bygone. Not that I used those exact
words back then, but the scenery was changing. Just as times (always) do.
Prior to that, I wouldn’t say there was no time in
the world I inhabited. Because there was no such a word in my vocabulary. I
knew no concept of time. What I knew was just how to keep moving along that
weird trajectory that only now can be dubbed time. Back then, I knew no words
such as time. Weird.
Neither inhibited, nor paralyzed. Just immobile by
virtue of vocabulary: immune to the chronological vortex by virtue of being
unaware of the idea of time. Strangely, thanks to that very immobility back
then, I learned how to be constantly moving on, once the chronos imagery
changed and another sight was being constituted from the crumbs, shards,
splinters of a yesteryear’s tale.
Of course, back then, I could by no means even think
of the role those uneventful experiences would play in my vision of the world.
What’s even weirder is that my knowing
all these things can hardly be supported by any solid piece of evidence from
those years of yore. Nor can it be backed up by my memory of either awareness
or the lack thereof. The whole experience from that “timeless” time is
incontestably inaccessible to me. Some thoughts are not, however. Nor are some
emotions. And yet, despite that quirky
communication with history, I know that precisely those “timeless” time moments
shaped my dialogue with the intersection of the time axes and my sensitivity to
its passage.
How I know the whole thing about “timeless” time and
when it was…who knows. I do know,
however, that it shaped my vocabulary in
the way that enables me to continue moving on along that wierd trajectory.
As static keeps crystallizing overseen by the
solidity of the presence of the oak pillars carrying the warm airy cushions,
gaseous waves softly whispering the story the river told me throughout the
mighty stately castle, flashing a smile back to the sparkling constellations. like phunk!
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