WWII

The soldier just lost it.
A bullet here and a bullet there,
a shot fired in the air.
Shrapnels and metal exploding everywhere.

It was hard to stay awake.
It was too easy to go to sleep.
He could just run away .
But where?

"What was it for anyway?", he asked an imaginary futurist.

World War.
World War II.

He wondered how it would all end!
It was still the 5th of August 1945.

"Seriously though", he thought, "this was getting sickening."
It didn't seem like this in the very beginning.
"Do the others feel this way too?"
"What about that guy over there, shooting away the machine gun with random precision?"

Another shell from the air and his leg was gone.
Slowly, piece by piece each part of his body left its living force, writhing in the ashed dirt.
Blood red everywhere.
There was a strange energy in the air.
As if some evil face in the sky was plucking away strings -
driving a puppet show on the killing fields.

He remembered the last time he had heard music.
It was last night in the tent - Glen Gould playing Goldberg Variations.
How it had taken him to a different place, where the skies were blue and the trees still green.

His head fell off.
His mind could still be....a brief moment of eternity

The notes of the music got louder.
The sounds of the bombs and bullets began to fade.
The sky got clearer.
The trees bore leaves.

Death was beautiful...indeed.

Set ways of setting things.

Erasing the silent scratches on that old rusty guitar was never an easy task.

Every time the skin touched the old polish, the sounds came alive like a ghost story in an IMax movie theater.
There was so much tension in those strings - the strains are still lingering in the fluctuations of air pressure.
They could have been frozen on plastic discs - electromagnetic gigs in a developing circuit of plastic and silica.

Something is always moving. That's the nature of its sound.
That's the way the notes off that old rusty guitar made stories in her head.
The cavities of her skull enveloped the music like a woman who wraps her arms in a sudden cool breeze - shielding a child yet to be born.

Something is always moving. The structure of the songs unfolds out of rudimentary chaos.
Its all the same old story.
But is there any such thing as an old story?

The oldest story does not have a beginning.
Who knows when it all started.
Where is it going?
Who knows?
Moreover, after all is over what shall remain?
Will the story continue or will it refrain?

The oldest story will keep on going.
No end to meet.
Just more twists to turn.
More beans to spill.

The scenes will change like the washed out chalk powder on a slick black board - just words written on a temporary fabric.
Partially memorable information - bits and pieces of knowledge.
Who suffers and who enjoys?
These concepts are mere toys.
The mind plays away...always.

If you believe something it comes true.
Not because it is something you believe but simply because it comes true.

If you don't believe anything it still comes true.

How does that work?



Don't believe it!!!

11:thirty 4 m&m

Temporal portals of crammed up space sparkled through the window like stars in a naked sky. Sounds from an old TV set echoed for miles while somewhere in the frigid vicinity stood cooked bodies of dead stallions. Beyond the fenced walls rose a silver horizon touching a yellow sky and in the center of it all hung a crystal moon - oscillating.

The eyes moved independently in the head, the frown smiled immediately, and the solid friction of tears and eye-lashes splashed tiny droplets of helpless apathy - petrified.

some accidents almost always happen at the same place. Between mountains and valleys, roads and rivers, streets and skies....
The mind shatters thoughts of reckless creativity, floating desperately in an unwavering storm of precious moments slipping away bit by bit - in slow motion.

The music seemed too loud, the colors too bright and the voices just couldn't shut the fuck up. But wait, don't leave. Its just another world, its just another dream.

Nightmares Please?

Good Night.

Stop and Sing

If a full stop existed in real life it would look like a large black blob reflecting your iris into some deep dark abyss of an unpredictable future.

Images of tomorrow bury the present under a heap of thoughts all cluttered into a neat little box wrapped with old wall paper and a ribbon torn off the edge of The Odyssey.

After the full stop all events collapse into a vortex of permutated distortions - noises of possibilities, the trends of limitations.
Standing here offers a perfect view of things to come - and of the things that have arrived.

Come on now. Is it so simple that you have forgotten about it all along?
Don't you remember how lost it appeared before a gigantic adult picked you up and pointed at the sun, the sky and the stars?

Mirror images all around and so much internal reflection.
The out side just percolates into a trickling faucet of leaky moments.

Drip-imagination.

Black follows white and the sight of darkness instigates visions of colored shapes.
Sizes of all sort -big and small - cluster together in scintillating patterns.
A whiff of yesterday blends into the steaming fragrance of a fresh day.
When the sun rises it just makes a soft sound.
Can you hear it around you?

... and the notes of this primordial music merge with the flapping of a birds
wings as it sings through the trees.

A jet plane wheezes by. Sonic boom.

Boom
Boom
Boom
Boom

The road goes nowhere even if you imagine its taking you to some place in future time and space.
The face in the mirror has changed over the years and now there is a certain kind of confusion a

"Who is it?"

Well, more people have come and gone and the dreams have suddenly started making sense.
At least some sort of sense.

Another day another night
the history of love
the stories of a fight
The pen scribbled down
on the pictures of a town
words screamed -
the reader scanned over dry bread
under a dim light.

Occasionally he looked up to watch time flow
sound asleep was another world
wide awake for the show
tommorrow

Apparently the altitude is real and it seems like the depth is in a similar way too.

If you have questions ask me
...but if you want answers ask yourself.

Dilemma on thee couch...

How do you feel?

I feel absolutely automatic.

Can you describe this automaticity?

Yes. I will use an analogy. Say clothes or example. Clothes are at the complete mercy of the wearer's whim. They travel with him in the company of other clothes, some friends some foes. Some look good some look so so. Some ugly and out they go. The rest are tossed in the washer, hurled in the drier, with each other and into one another. Sometimes they try to fly - escape like Jerry once joked about. The adventure comes back from hangers to being folded, and sometimes being forgotten. In the end there is disintegration of some sort or a drastic change of owners, from home to homeless, shredding thread after thread on the streets, a final purpose before with dust it meets.

But a piece of clothing is a mere garment. No free will.

Yes, but that was just to describe the automaticity.

So do you feel you are without free will and automatic?

No. This is just how I feel now. At this particular moment. Most of the times, like him and her, you and them.

Hmm. So how will you feel after this has passed?

Like a tree. A seed in the dirt. Water and sun and an urgent sense of growth. An ambition to go high, branch out into infinite possibilities. Flowering dreams that bear fruit. Spreading the seed, living in harmony with the weed.

And what next then? Does this lead to other things?

I don't know, it is then that I start feeling automatic. When I think, what next, what next, what next...

What would you rather feel?

Automatic like a tree. Right here and right now, not like the fate of the shirt or the jeans.

So whats the plan?

The plan was always there. Always is. Its been the secret of the seed. The wet earth the sun and the breeze.

Then what is the difficulty?

Execution

The answer is just be.

Just be me?

Be.

Me.