Yogurt

I haven't been outside in three days, except to get groceries. I see the sun coming out out now, cresting over the top of the 15^th century building that has been my refuge, its rays piercing downward just enough to tempt my guilt into reminding me that there are things to do beyond these four walls – walks to be taken, inspiration to be gathered, depressions to fight, a life to be lived - not suffered through.

Maybe just one more cracker. Maybe a quick nap, sleeping off the the more insufferable parts of me. Maybe just a blind sit, focused on something infinitesimal and and miniscule that I can clean, or fix. Halfway through another bite, already thinking about the next one, the penultimate addict, even while the drugs go needing to know where the rest is coming from. . .

Worthless. I throw that one to the universe as ask it if the pastas is done or not. Can't see it sticking to the wall just yet but either way it leaves me with the vague notion that I have a choice in this whole cooking process. But trying to turn down the heat is like trying to run away in a dream, where free will is the joke of the conscious mind as it gives way to the finer points of your sub-conscious insanity. Where am I exactly? How did I get here and where am I going? Are these questions that even have answers? Or are they just meant to be allowed to fester into colonies of layered sporadic mold? Growing deep within me is the notion of the useless of this all. Like a natural yogurt having been removed from the refrigerator, no more tempered degeneration or cooling through distraction. I can't seem to change the bacterial culture of my mind so it keeps on growing new thoughts of increasing complexity. At first just an amoeba of self-doubt, a single spored organism spelling out nothing more then the time past expiry. But as the days wear on and I sit unstirred, unsettled, unmixed, unrefrigerated I grow new life. A complex life form now that lives growing orange-yellow fields of fungus over my gestated hills. No longer recognizable, not even consumable by the most desperate, I sit in longing of the attention of a spoon, only to behold the incomprehensible conversations that one can have with their own mold. I am a complex organism now lost in a world of muti-celled creatures, untouchable as a louse, only to be admired with mild disgust and awe at the ridiculousness of it all. Just just a hairy euphonious caterpillar, making puss coloured smores on the sidewalk while laughing in the rain. Squish, splat, boom. Squish,splat boom. Walk it off kid, you'll be a moth yet, you'll have wings yet. Reconstitute those splattered organs and give me twenty. Come on kiddo, no need to lay dead to the world, pick your self out from under that shoe and lets see what you got.

Just a hairy euphonious caterpillar. . .

A Window Reflection

I am sitting here looking out over a grey Parisian courtyard, eating a warm croissant, drinking coffee and listing to Maurice Cheviller. The cracked and worn wooden french window is slightly a jar to allow in the scents of the streets below, while the space heater keeps churning away trying to keep out the cool January breeze. Not too severe mind you, just a chill and a hidden sun, but also a sense of something coming. This seems to be a thing that makes Parisian winters particularly interesting. You wallow in the depths of December's cold grey glove only to emerge, still freezing, but embraced by a  feeling of anticipation, of newness, or at the very least, possibility. A living restlessness grows a spring of progress beneath each stagnate street and in each hibernating tree. All things that do not speak vibrate with pent up discoveries - promises, promises - in everything. I have never seen Paris is full bloom, but from what January is telling me, it's going to be spectacular.

Prove Me Wrong - UK Series

And from the battlefield of my incurable sickness I scream – fates! And in the bowels self doubt I scream – fates! And in metaphysical exasperation I demand - Prove yourself to me. Prove me wrong.

And fate flatters itself. Stacking the cards against me. Reminding me this is not the way. Be a good girl. Make the right decision. Wait. Measure out your Smarties.

Yet here I stand, on my way to Scotland, ignoring the inconveniences that seem to spell out the universe's contrarian resolve; the cancelled flight, delayed trains, a lost hostel proceeding the harrowing late night journey in an unsafe neighbourhood, the inclement weather. . . I see fates closed fist and continue to wonder with addled constitution; do I duck and dodge, or swing back?

Here, surrounded by strangers, it again becomes safe enough to think. Submerged in anonymity and counting on the presence of others, it becomes safe enough to think of more then just life and limb. Like breathing the highlights stream-in to this visual perch; vaulted ceilings, seamless walls, uncomfortable chairs and baggage. It is only to slip away from tertiary fear to be caught again in an airport waiting room, a place afraid of its own utility, filled with transients.

 

Fates. Prove yourself to me. Prove me wrong. Otherwise is to remain a sceptic of sceptics. Otherwise is to be affirmed by silence. No need for a sign, to remain just another feeble human catastrophe. Just a thorn among the throng, a mutable hedge. Just apart of a simple flora fence along an innocuous street, tearing into this galactically negligible planet. Just a prick. One of billions sitting on the fringe of consciousness, not even in line to be picked last. 


Travelling hastily, the rest of the universe holds a transcended têtê à têtê' on interstellar immigration while we continue wobbling along, 20 feet every 433 days. Conscious as polar fleece we continue to be manicured with indignity believing in these innocuous streets while Grandma and Grandma hypo-terrestrial visit their mildly inbred grandson Glog in Sector 4 for Christmas, bringing presents purchased waiting for a worm hole. And despite the intelligence that goes zooming through the universe I remain here, stuck to this hedge, pointing obtusely, growing in the sun and staring in confusion at the man with the funny hat telling me I am more than just a thorn. More than a something, a piece of something. Capable. Able to effect action.