there are no classes today. saying this feels so right and justified as I continue to look out the window and hear the scrambled, defying words on my head layered over the periodic sharpness of the sound of the rain. I say, this is going to be easy and slow.
only in tumblr can you see photographs of the most trivial things such as peeling the skin over the curve of one’s foot. I like seeing these as it makes me feel that life is not too complicated if you want to see it in such a way. why tell me about the coarseness of your schedule or the sweet-gone-bitter relationship that you have when you know you can take it nice and easy, like peeling the skin over the curve of your foot. take pictures of exotic mountains and unnamed flowers and people will like it because we ask, ‘where is it? how did you find it?’. take pictures of two guys horsing around in the middle of the night or a girl and a boy sleeping among littered bottles of beer and cigarette butts and I will say it’s rare and I like it. it isn’t rare per se like the exotic mountains and unnamed flowers. yet I like it because it’s not always that I see a tiny bit of simplicity in this world specified to work under the concept of complexity.
we make life difficult, don’t we?
do I live in this side of the world? I think I don’t. I don’t even know if I’m here at all. when I write I feel like I exist in a different kind of plane in another dimension. the surroundings are blurred and the only things I take with me are my laptop and whatever it is under my laptop –a pillow or my deranged, wobbly desk. so I make it to a point to travel in this world every night/day. I touch on the subject of dreams, and I know I am liking it more and more.
my book hasn’t arrived yet. on the average, people will receive the books in 2 1/2 weeks. it’s already 2 1/2 weeks. tomorrow I will check my mail.
Lunch by John Davies
what becomes of them
the red napkin, the soup
her nervous nail polish
tapping the marble table
her insulted mouth
closing on lasagne and salad
the chilled dew of chablis
on her peach coloured lips
her sceptical shoulders
when she speaks
and her skin
shimmering resentment
when he speaks
what becomes of them
when the table is cleared
and she leaves to invent
a life without miracles
images and gestures, descriptive words that evoke form and emotion, and this matured way of reflecting on memories that do not lose their essential details. I like this poem very much, because I also see myself in 4-inch wedges, all prim and proper, too vulnerable for this world yet too strong for you and me. and as my heart slowly beats on the floor, I’ll say, ‘you pick it up and shower the world with its petals of red and ash gray’
