Cute Kittens!

Symmetrically insane. There isn't enough space in the world, to give me the room I need to breath. Can't think in this mess. What is it that I am looking for!? A wispy line of forgiveness, it tempts me to the troughs of exsistencelessness. There are no answers there, but it feels so good, to sit inside a suicide. Feeling the weight level off, slinking away calmly like hot sand through outstretched hands.

I would like to say this is a crisis. A breakdown for which, or at least from which something can be saved, but it is not in the moments of distress and agony that the call of the emptiness sings the loudest. For in those moments we are filled, at least, with something. Though a gaping wound bleeds and burns, one is aware that pain is transitory and finite, flesh up against the knowledge that it passes.

It is in the quiet solitude of daily existence – over breakfast, the middle of a gregarious burst of laughter, in a lost passage we weren't really reading – that the real threat pokes through. A strange paradox, more hope in hopelessness, than in this handshake.

Currently Unreflected

Breakfast still lingers below the exotic palate of lunch. The vestiges of my old familiar friend is a warm shadow.

No control, we have no control.

Unfamiliar, quickly becomes recognizable, even if still not understood.

It's no ones fault. This is just the way it is. A dream is an inherently tragic thing. It begs to disappoint. To be let out into the world to be crushed. To survive a dream must be flexible. It must be able to see itself reflected back in failure. And this failure belongs to no one. It is merely an antiquated repetition of the course of time.

History and anthropology. My condolences to the Queen, on this, the day of tragic consequences in the House. But perhaps, tragic is not exactly accurate. Perhaps we would be better served, if we merely said what we really thought: this House, is a house of cards.

*Shwoooosh*

Tumble, tumble – tombe bebe.

Cat's cradle, this world belongs to dog spoons and the rest of the cutlery drawer. Though of course we all know; we don't save the silverware in a fire.

Women and children first.

Only if there are enough boats. . .

But I don't come equipped with life rafts.

Too much baggage.

But anyway, the prevalent winds say. But anyway, how much can you pay? Indeterminable amounts, in indefinite increments. As much as you need. Just give me what I want. We all get let off, and we all get lead on. Head on. It's the only way to see through. Head on, this beautiful day – is not for me, inside this crucible, locked into the falsities, sucking them back like gob-stoppers – everlasting. I am Slugworth, you are Slugworth . We Are Slugworth. Only Charlie. Only baby. Not me, I'm just the damage done.

But Anyway. But Anyway.

But Anyway.
But Anyway. But Anyway.



It's not decision day.

Freedom Rights, For Seagulls

Did you know that seagulls are racists?
Brown against white
Turf wars spill out before me on the banks of the English Bay.
Light against dark,
and a small territory,
of an invisible square.

Do you think they would kill him?
If he continues to refuse?
The imposed order of things?

Scatter

Horizon clouds
Like snowbanks from the shore.
Drift-less puffs of cold steam.

Free will,
the power to surprise.
Sailing ships in the sky with rotary blades,
cuts the power.
And blankets the atmosphere.
In and out,
out and in,
in and out and in and in and in. . .

The endless struggle.
Factory workers of the sky,
dropping bombs of water,
into steam.

It ends here.
The beginning and the end ends
In all moments,
As this moment is.

White fought back.
The larger of the darkest having gone,
he picked a protegee brown to unleash his repressed emotions on.
His relinquished territory reclaimed in the name of opportunity,
Like all good things.

Though it may remain a question of personality,
not consciousness. . .
I can't prove the gull is angry.
I can only argue he has the capacity to be.

Water wind is always remarkably cold.

Ground pepper shores.
And salt washing constantly inwards.
Spice of the earth,
Below my feet.

And now the sun.
The passage of time unbearably bearable.
Is this all there is too it?
Just a request?
And a promise,
That tomorrow there may, be?

Smoky processed pork, does not feel as good as it smells.

Mum, you're son's going to remember this forever,
Days at the beach,
At least somewhere in his mind.

I remember feeling safe like that.
The cleanliness of security,
It washs perceptions dry
Through a wet wind.

This will always be an experiment,
this will always be guttural.
It's how I was trained.
Yes, you should do well,
But how do you feel?

Oh the places you'll go!
Forgot it was a metaphor,
and lost it's own subtly,
along with mine.

But here I am.
Not quite alone,
but wishing I was
at least out of range.

Are you supposed to swim in this?
Doesn't seem right. . .
How does he know?

Speed boats across the elastic tundra
knows not that I am here,
Nor what it is speeding towards.
All he can say is brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. . . .
Which I interpret to mean,
I love you.

Harold.
You're a good man,
if just a bit broken.
I think age might age you - but I'll never know.
Thanks regardless,
For all the fish.

The oppressed seagull thanks you too.

Some Thoughts - In Transition

I don't know how to pull back any further. I'm trying to let go but I feel entranced by my own past. Time is a nightmare moving into the future - keeping no secrets. I hold on, on, on. Past the point of no return, past mere logic and into sleep. Past these dead desires that manifest in purchases I'm too dumb to see. My hands are old. Sinew rigidity. They look like my mothers, they remind me of my father. As everything falls out of place I expect something; and as anyone can tell you, that is my first mistake.

I expected you to call – earlier. I expected to get here – earlier. I expected something – different. Only the mental space between here and there and its passage will alleviate the guilt, the confusion and the lies; I've told myself.

Feeling mostly narrow now. Narrow mind, narrow eyes, narrow steps. I keep shaking my head and taking deep breaths, I keep working through. But except for a temporary understanding between me and the universe I generally remain unavailable. I remain closed and struggle through the dirt to follow up to the surface, the cracks of light I see through the muddle.

I felt more myself at home, in love with the idea of leaving. In love with the fact that I had met my own escape. The psychological worst case scenario come true – I'm trying to run away from myself. Running from these thoughts and the perpetual sense that I am in some way being undersold on life. That there is something in the world and it is saying I. . . CAN'T.

But it is my own shadow. I see that now. My skin, my own boundary and all the fucked up miscreants inside that flow like clockwork. My body factory. Squish, squish – snap. Squish, squish – snap. Snap.

And there it goes.

It's dark outside and you're too afraid. Have to impress somebody. Have to make good on the promise to yourself that you won't deny how much you LOVE . . . EVERYONE.

Bullshit. Love is like blue cheese. And just like love, some people will get that. And some people won't.

But I get it. Loud and clear – coming in like the bloody bells of Notre Dame. BING! Time to move. BING!! Let's go. BING! Faster now. BING! Pushing forward. BING! Ceaseless. BING! Careful. BING! Watchout. BING! BING! BING BING! BING!

Fire's out.

Feeling hollow.

Oozy, doozy brains. Shhhhhh. Shhhh. Quiet now.

I will complete the puzzle. I will manifest joy. I will attempt at living. I will die.

Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

I will complete the puzzle. I will manifest joy. I will attempt at living. I will die.

Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

I will complete the puzzle. I will manifest joy. I will attempt at living. I will die.

Shhh.

Stanley Park

New video from my long afternoon in Stanley Park. . . apparently I make video's now! haha

http://www.youtube.com/user/thewonderemporium?feature=mhum

Moving to France

So at the end of this week I am moving to France for a year. But in the meantime I am in Vancouver, BC enjoying the uniqueness that is the westcoast:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1vgTo7VGnM

More to come. . .

Seattle Etc. . .

There’s a strange dimness to the light in a City where it always rains. As this languid night spills out before from this top floor Seattle hostel I notice life begin to come into focus. No longer bleary eyed and staggering through routine I look around, and bite down.

I cannot begin to understand why I am spurred so into darker and darker tunnels. Alice, the white rabbit and I, spinning, spinning toward infinity, crashing casually into the darkness and laughing all the way down. At the bottom, through the tiny, giant door and from across the room she looks at me; the lesbian on the lower bunk. So I write her away. Words hit the page like bullets exploding fear into tangible, edible bits. Shrapnel, battleship battalions lay in a wake of creative ruin on empty white space.

Finally, I feel it.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.

I place the world upon the page and it is defined away; my poetic justice.

In this common room all the languages of the world commence and fall apart on my ears. It’s a hot bed of narcissists, refractories, languishers and hooligans. Wayward children lost in a mess of concrete, looking for the last frontier of affection, looking for someone to pass along the minutes in loudness - drowning. Choking in street side noise and going down in the spatial discombobulation experienced as the lost, in a generation of losers. The husk of a patrician cob thrashed off for the more valuable internal structure - kernels in perfect rows. Unstated fears sweep like marine tides in and out, in and out and playful around the thoughts and minds of a few kids trying to get home. Home. The allegory for my sadness. The end of a rainbow, always in my peripheral.

But we can't go home. Not really. Our homes are just old families with new lives. They do not hold us but in a photograph on comfort side furniture. Whether they left us, or we left them, there was point of no return. A point when the promise of something more mocked us into this gasoline fueled hiatus. That promise mocks me now; from the street, through the window and into the space stained sheets of this hostel bed. Sadness mocks me. Anger mocks me. And this city mocks me with its potential. And mine.

I grind the reality of this place like dirt between my teeth. Pumiced and chalky it pastes between my gums. It tastes and sounds like a place where things began in earnest, rather then in vain, like the marketed wonders of cleaner avenues. Cold open markets splay out in front of me as I watch the eyes, of people watching things. I watch their mouths, lazy gum worms form audibles that pass redundantly, repetitively through weather, children, decorating, banks, doctors; weather, children, decorating, banks, doctors; weather, children, decorating, banks, doctors. These days beat away like a loose snare and, as clichéd as it sounds, Grunge does makes sense here, even if it is 10 plus years gone.

These streets are a migraine. Macaroni and cheese. Chalk silhouettes of artistic trials on long sprawling outdoor shelves. Bacon, boxes, lilies, doorknobs, doorstoppers, door-hangers, odd sods, whole loaves, half buns, panini’s, crepes de banane, ripe oranges, perfect grapes, warm pies, dates, fruits, figs, wine, beer, truffle oil soup - mannequins in a street side masquerade. Layers and layers of things and rings and ideal idleness. This City sinks and is lifted, not by spirit, but by the noise of its own existence. It thinks. This City thinks. . .