Thursday, March 18, 2010

Correspondence 7

So many things, Frederick, then, quiet now they all disperse, and disperse only to resurface when tension builds. We walked today and you were quiet, a silent judge, hailed above the rest, an exception to the rule in many senses. What is it that we do exactly to make things easier. For me, Frederick, you said it was the fact that I was able to realize all things do not eventually come to a crashing halt, but that the things we have to do, those that need to get done, life tasks, will get done; regardless of any extra effort exuded by myself. So we are merely quiet and frail as humans, calm and controlled, doing our piece to create a whole, of something, not necessarily of a "whole of existence", or of a "whole of society and community", but a whole of ourselves, pieces of a puzzle to create an "image of a train station in the rain, with blurred outline of a man or woman waiting at the station edge, for a light in the distance, to come and take them away!"
Nonetheless, we do this, always, this collecting of mental relics, we horde instances and moments, of times when we did...we contrive other instance when we night have done such and such, and in setting those trivial fictitious moments, memories so far off in the distance, like that brief moment of light that might be the train light, or just another light adorned lamp post, we can almost speak them as history, our personal history! We do this with a tacit consent and assumption that all the pieces are able to collected, or are at our disposal! The possibility inconceivable that filling this hole is possible, by collecting the snippets in order to create a whole, does not stop us from moving forward in attempt of such a grandiose feat.
We find nothingness in this though, in the cave packed mind shaft of mental moments miserly holed up for us to horde and grovel through! Yet we hold this past recounting as a meditation, a solitude of fortunes lost, past and never achieved, of gems of temporal fleeting, and ultimately gold dobs of sand worn time, dripping through our hands as the grans may an hour glass. But at the same time it seems a conglomeration of all things , that in this emptiness of nothingness, we find everything, that the vacuum sucks itself in to pull itself out again. This rolling over of itself, in and out of itself, folded over on itself, peaks beyond one sentiment into another, and as these two feeling grasp cold fingers as they peer around each others edge, that is, wholeness as a mind full of mental moments against emptiness as simple a mind full of mental moments, the fear cancelling out of each other drips through every platelet, blood cell and nerve ending and creates a numbing!
It is intriguing, Frederick, that you felt that we relived a vicious cycle, we re-entered unknowingly into the life infinite, utter fools, maybe your pessimism is your Strong point and your weakness: But you write at night with eyes stinging, attempting to capture the last bits of lamp light before the oil lessens, lap flickers and out. The wooden slabs run the length of the floor, creaking, your feet, wrinkled hands, toe nails decaying, with no nail at your last toe, just skin...But beauty denies age, no age denies beauty, no beauty and age are skin deep, are cliched. Beauty hangs before everything, as does any valuable trait held by a person; and it is only that we work to hard to see what is there before us, when we ease into everything!

Monday, March 15, 2010

Correspondence 5

Slow, Frederick, my breath extended, my chest rising, and along this hazy day, I watched as the clouded sky sighed, as I might, as if knowing that its current plans are going to be washed away; not much unlike the branches, tree limbs, and full tree bodies down Route 15! The wind scuttled, Frederick, and the branches fingers scratched at window panes, they too, whispering, Scuttle, Scuttle, Scuttle. And what of those wooden framed windows, on their track with painted thick rope pieces, only able to be risen or lowered if both sides are exactly parallel to each other; what of those Frederick, rickety, rickety shaken by the winds massive hands, the knuckles white where they gripped tight the window sides. Behind them, Frederick, the reckoning of the mind, subtle slowness encapsulating, and vertical and horizontal motions cease. Beyond those Windows it's Monday, I think , you say Tuesday, along the main street, we walking, you to the left of where you walked, to the right of the street, stepping through and occasionally on those cracks, me flinching each time you missed stride and the soles of your worn boots straddled those industrial built sidewalk slabs. Occasionally, as if on some miniature level, the sidewalk having split and one side of the crack risen, as I imagine the world might in some giant earth tremor, your shoes try to bridge that giant fissure, and focus your balance from the heel to the ball of your foot. Even in these moments, I flinch with the thought of yet another back being broken. But I muddy the mental waters, and sail from my point, as it was here Frederick, as the winds faded between the brick behemoths on either side of us, and the gust having risen up, and then as if in the rise, the wind regained it's strength and scoured back towards the minute openings in our jackets, the spaces between wrist and jacket cuff; our neck and jacket collar, and invaded the last few spaces of warmth for the rise of hair in these follicles their reach extending to some imaginary warm space in the vacuum of their undeveloped minds. You spoke words that entered the world as smoke, lifted twirled in a very unrehearsed waltz with that same wind, and the word, Goodnight entered into existence, stricken to the record, as a scream, and I yell back, the heat of my words as jet stream towards yours, and we battle for the nights attention! It's midday and dreary, most certainly not night, even on this the first long day of the year, this dreary Monday, although it seemed Tuesday to you , but dreary doesn't cut it, you say, as you would, hanging on the limbs of that white knuckled wind; and I, vanquished, retreat, each word doesn't cut it, I mumble. So moving on, together once and against the pale gray street, flooded with shop windows dimly lit I sit!