The Inner Beast

The Inner Peace. Quite the same thing. It's like misheard lyrics of the heart. Or the mind. Like some quietened down roaring which is like wheels lurching to a stop. Maybe it's such a shame when words are to be typed when there's quiet and it's not the noise that is being put down on paper. Laziness. Smarts. Who knows. When one is assaulted with loud noise for unbearable amounts of time, it is still hard to realise on one's own how much that affects the functioning of a mind, but the mind noises are always there. Sometimes rushing through, colliding thoughts and haphazard movements. Probably stimuli driven. The ugliness and wrongness that goes around creates a strange dissonance which probably just goes away when one's in a space that is largely self-created and acceptable and welcome. Welcoming and welcome. Being with people one welcomes and is welcomed by. However that looks, it feels like a welcome.

Soft light, familiar sounds, dogbarks from far away, road traffic but so much lesser than daynoise, keyboard tiptaps, router blinkings, familiar curtains, famliar other cloths, familiar shawls, even new familiar shawls, outofreach blankets, a waiting phone, a waited phone, slightly long don'tneedtocutthemyet nails, background noise music, elbows on thighs, cracking knuckles, blowable hairstrand, bitable lip, scratchable back, needless fireworks, senseless celebration, why.

Familiar shawls, long shawls. "This is my Papa's shawl. He got it from when he was chief guest somewhere." "Why do you have it?" "Because I am.. his chief guest?"

Reading Freud's Dream and Delusion in Jenson's Gradiva. Pompeii. I happened to attend a talk on it at the JLF. Accidentally, largely. It felt too much to travel to another venue after beer and pasta. And there was Mary Beard, talk of normal sized bedpan thingies and spaces being markets/bars/temples. But no one said a word about a woman with an attractive gait, Bertgang. I like it though, also the idea of Wilhelm Jenson being respected, but not one of the best of any sort. Also, ruminating on JLF, quite a few things stick. Such as who are you writing for. It was said: one wants, through words, to not stroke but poke.

But even when one pokes, one had to know who it is one is packing a powerful poke for. Sometimes one doesn't know anything, and there is nothing to know. One doesn't care to care, because one is one.

Does the bricklayer imagine for the future inside a small room or a giant hall? That one built. Does the bricklayer appreciate the vastness of the sky or is that only for those who are strangers to it. After all one doesn't wonder about the paintveins on one's ceiling, was the painter thinking about.. something. Or nothing.

Sweetheart.

Rain-wet earth
Darkened roads
Grey sun
The hills rise from the green
My baby lives on a screen.
Sees cross country
Big university, small room
Won't be close
Anytime soon
Not nearer than
In my pocket, next to my pillow
Carried around, kept
On buses,
Moving on railway tracks
Rain-wet earth
Darkened roads
Grey sun
Won't see me anytime soon
Tells me to have fun.

Tears taste like coconut water.
 
- Written on 8th September, 2013. Thought it should go up. This is just precious. I don't even remember what the coconutty tears were for. Or who. Or maybe I do and I don't.

Being in one.

Like a clapboard noises out, a guillotine blade falls, flash goes off, shutter comes down, sun comes up and in sometime it makes your head spin and it's hot and dreary.

As if one willfully surrenders to be in a room perpetually in the moment. Makes it their own and then every other day bang on walls, break things, write profanities, talk to oneself. One made it for two. Is left singularly solo. One doesn't realise it's made for one. Was for one. Meant to be for one.

The food will run out, and they'll eat the other's time. Crunch up words and wave sleepily to ideas that go to a distant unnamed place. The farm. Where the parents put your rabbits when you were 7.

Shot up to black, occasionally sparkly space which could be either what they tell you or someone just punched a few holes in your paperbag which you wear on your head as a necessary precaution. Not to offend.

Paint walls with a childish landscape only to realise its wallness.

Lick on a cardboard ice cream.

Step over to avoid a dry puddle.

Feel a stair where there wasn't any. You haven't reached.

Mistakenly dip a paintbrush in chocolate milk.

Write this because you want to write this.

It's thoughtmurder. Thoughtdeath. Inward terrorism. Cornsyrup utopia. Autotune. Autopilot.

Make a gash. Sing. Dry up.

Unapproved Guest Post

What Anonymous said about the previous post 'Sleep Gum' and because Anonymous doesn't write as much as I want them to - which is pretty much never. Because Anonymous is really only the one person who well, reads this blog. And because Anonymous didn't know this was going to happen. And because this need to be better preserved. 
And because it's beautiful. For the love of words, the mind and the poetry of it.

You know what, I don't like your blog.
I don't like it when you write a post.
But I just have to read it.
And after reading it, I dislike it.
The reason for it is that, your writing scares me.
Its almost repulsive.
It's like my thoughts.
It's like I am telling myself about myself, if you catch my drift.
It's like you invaded my mind and extracted my thoughts and put them on paper, and not the casual thoughts, but those thoughts which make me feel very strongly about something.
And that scares me, that someone can know what I know and feel about something.
Then I find solace in the fact that it is just coincidence.
And that the things you write about are not the things which are as important to me as other issues.
I hope you never write about those things.
I might not be able to take it.
Your writing scares me.
It's like walking into a mirror show in the circus.
And the mirrors don't distort the reality here, they amplify with.
With vague familiar feelings.
Your writing comforts me.
Because I will never be able to reach into my mind and bring these thoughts out.
Ignore this message.
Thank you, Anonymous. I hear you. And I understand.