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

walls whisper

If you could speak, i wonder of the words you might recite. The stories you might tell. The speeches you could write.

In the years before they came, the air was open. The vast throes of echo bouncing between walls yielded to nothing but a sky roof. Unsealed, untiled. Unsullied. In your dreams of creation, the black blocks and redbricks were uniform. Spaced and patterned with careful regularity, yet with a modern curl, cured from any illusion of cluttered grandeur.

A glint of sepia glow to the wallflower hint of a lit church candle paints the plaster on this day. Coves shine under the harsh flouresence of business lighting. Maybe years ago, they’d be a little different…

Today, though, the walls are caked with layer upon layer of dust. Of human particles, the heady mix of crystallised flesh and lead-lined acidic paint. One has to think of how and why these layers are created. To repaint the past? To gloss a fresh lick over a multitude of sins? Or just, perhaps a sprucing up. Saplings and bark, cleancut lines, reflection. All we seem to aspire to these days, is bouncing the mirror-image around, until they wilt under yet another refractive interference. We don’t want to see definite. Just a hint of what the possibilities might be.

For some reason I think of a New Orleans old mansion holding the flakes and chips of its old grandeur of which has these rusted cast iron spires with it’s mouldering fine velvet and wool. Cobwebs adorn the dustiness of the occasion in fine powder and silken wisps of entropy of which makes the whole house not look like its rotting, but sleeping. Now, if we swept them away, what would it reveal?

I enjoyed this meditation.