Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

13 September 2007 @ 10pm



don’t listen to me.  i’m a ball of nerves.  i’m a pack of lies.  i’m a forgotten never-was, lying at the back of your cupboard, the words you might whisper into discarded tissues, before throwing them carelessly from car windows, to skip on the breeze and fall foul of an oncoming face.  On falling and firing, whispered words can get lost in the wind.

Why are you so calm?  How are you so serene?  For the past days I have been starving for energy to rise from being more than a listless mess of stinging cells, bashing about together, confusedly.  Where is the direction?

Again last night, I saw your shadow gently imprinting footprints onto my thoughts.  You distrubed the delicate chemical balance of brains the world over and caused television screens to rattle to life and broadcast the same message on them.  The weight of a kilogramme has decreased by the weight of a fingerprint.  I had the feeling you were stealthily stealing through nights the world over, and your fingers were carefully and skillfully taking the prints away.  You’d never believe me, no matter how it could be said.  But I know that it was you.

You’re responsible for all the magic that’s been flying in the air recently.  I know we can’t speak of what happens when we fall from the safe ledge of sleep and into the other world, but next time…next time i might even bring a torch so i can secretly skip behind your feet as they tread water through greylined cloud.

I just have one simple request, next time.  Next time.  Maybe the next time.  Maybe all the previous versions of yourself should not shatter into one if others come near.  Maybe one day, next time, perhaps, we will spend the time with some simple glue, or even sellotape, if you like, and create an angular monster from the small pieces and fragments we find that have chipped off, along the way.  Glue them and stick them and plaster them into a tall creature, demurely accepting its being as the fabric of dreams, of nightmares, of people.  People who don’t want to be like this, or like that, any more.

Even give it a name.   Affix wheels to its large base, fit it with a collar and chain and take it for walks along the rickety streets, parading down hills, around built-up bends smelling of rubbish and vomit and Saturday Morning in Soho.  Everyone will be proud.  This is what they didn’t want us to be – all of us that is, not just you and not just me – a collection of the discarded parts.  Sewn and hammered and juxtaposed and crammed into a new form.

And think of the glee we could share, to push it into the deep end from a diving board, and watch the screaming vulturous offspring paw over it, shattering it…slowly being infected, one by one…

…and back to the start.  and back to the beginning, to the end, to the miracles, to the sights gazed at upon the way and the wrenching displacement at the end.  And begin again.  To stay, to go, to leave, to return.

This time, when I leave, tell me not to go.  Tell me not to come back.  Tell tales of mystery and dream and excuse yourself from any reprehensible argument and time and space and….

excusing yourself into nowhere, once more.

i know where you are.   please find me.


Posted by
14 September 2007 @ 10am

In a word… WOW!

A few more words: That’s magnificent prose. But why categorise it as nonsensical? Seems beautifully full of sense to me. More so than some people will ever say in a lifetime.

Posted by
Absolutely Miles Away
14 September 2007 @ 10am

it’s very much jumping about all over the place to me – like a mess of words all trying to escape, and when it was written an eve ago, this was where thoughts laid…in the mud rather than imperiously elsewhere.

thank you Mr. Doobrie!

Posted by
14 September 2007 @ 11pm

`He is unlovely somewhere. Part of the secret is his physical ungainliness. Being wizened his talent has a germ of shyness in it. Shyness has laws: you can only give yourself, tragically, to those who least understand. For to understand would be to admit pity for one`s frailty. Hence the woman he loves, the letters he writes to the woman he loves, stand as ciphers in his mind for the woman he thinks he wants or at any rate deserves – .’

from Justine by Lawrence Durrell.
nice eh!

Posted by
15 September 2007 @ 11am

Such wonderful words, wonderful, beautiful words!

Posted by
Absolutely Miles Away
26 September 2007 @ 8am

people: oh, that is interesting…

lillipilli – thank you.

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