There is a body on the beach
Follows in my footsteps
I run from it salty hiss
whispers lure me to sit
stumbling at its lip
Oh to taste that salty spit
and let it take me
to be fluid within its kiss.
I stare into its open swell
perfect and repetitive.
Like breath it does not think
but is thought.
As it locks minds with mine, I’m
deep within its deep
The part of me that reveals,
is the sea
That was enough of a sign. In a draughty bothán, they looked at themselves in grubby mirrors, uncertain of whether it’s muck gathering on their faces or just mirror-murk. The wind is extra howly due to the jagged, stone walls and inspiration is all around; that raw feeling that they sought, the unknowable voice which drew them in from the comfort of their previous existence to lighting fires with damp newspaper, unexpected winter chimney burns, nothing but the wind at the door, playing tricks on them; whipping round the house, hopping between the stones and pressing its face against the windows. They loved it. Some lived away from the maincrop, like some kind of boutique curio, demanding gossip and stories of the locals and this, a rare treat for the starving, once cultivated ego, now gone feral and overgrown, blending into the landscape. It’s not easy to hold on to past presuppositions and judgements in such a place. The fuel you burn is your own and your fix has to be nature and being blasted and the light, the strength of the hills and the expanse of nothing beyond for thousands of miles.
When I sit and look at things, I mean really look, I see nothing. And maybe that is because there is nothing. Not nothing in the traditional sense, where one might think of a void or a space within which there is no object but simply a time when nothing happened. This, of course leads to all kinds of complications involving the specific meaning of nothing which we are for the most part fairly slack in our definition of. But I’m not going to go into that here. And when I say ‘see’ I don’t of course mean ‘see’ in the traditional sense, what I’m seeing is something inside. You know, a force, an energy. Something which may drive a person to the point of doing. That indefinable sight which isn’t of course sight perhaps a combination of all the senses, focussed to a point of energetic burst, like a feckin’ lazer. A willful amalgamation of experiences, time and energy which gives us a new thought. And not empty and meaningless thought but some solid, indestructable ‘universal truth’ type thought. The unshakeable, life affirming thought which enters our mind, takes up the controls and then steers the hulking, jellied mass that is the human carcass, wobbling away with every step.
However, this thought upon thoughts is turning out to be a great problem and to be honest, can lead me to think you a crazy person. Because after all, they have no ‘life’ in ‘reality’, ‘time’ or ‘vision’ and therefore should be ‘struck’ from the ‘list’ of possibilities of ‘ways’ for us to ‘go’. How can you ‘live’ your ‘life’ ‘being’ ‘guided’ by thoughts? That’s absurd. They are ‘nothing’.
a plan that never was. That’s the best way to approach this subject. Not that I’m trying to shy away from the truth of my situation. Anyway, enough about me. Although I am the subject of this interpretation I will only get in the way if I keep blabbing. Back to the story, if you could call it that.
I had a dream once where I was killing Switzerland with white rectangles of light which neutralized its red rectangles. But an unfortunate turn made the destruction spread beyond Switzerland to a far off and unidentifiable land. How was I to know? It wasn’t as if I’d set out to accidentally slay the innocent, they just got caught up in my determination. In the dream I was a bit disappointed but realised that I was powerless and had achieved something that only most world-hardened cynic would have taken solace in. This was not me. All I wanted was my wanderings and not to get caught up in the serious side of things. I didn’t choose the killing as I keep trying to stress. I was its victim
There is an important lesson here to be investigated. The old ways are gone and that is not an empty statement. It is one which relies upon my own state of being to drain slowly toward a deep vacuum, an otherworldly magnetism which would have no problem disposing of me for it has no conception of ‘problem’. This I find difficult to stomach. On learning about its presence I came to face a truth I thought would never exist: that my story has already been told. And not by me or anyone who even knows me. At least that’s how it feels. And my fate is now obvious.
Give me the days of work-hardened hands and upstanding welts on the palms, shining after hours on the spade, making themselves known to me with every heaving chack into the soil and gravel, into hardcore, tarmac, stump and root. That spade i held was an extension of my wit and circumstance, crudely hacking away at the earth. And did I expect to hear back? Not at all. I lived for that work, I was tireless for sweat and every wheelbarrow load gave my life meaning. Each run up a plank into a skip was a journey for me. A knife edged, clifftop, chuck into the pit of urban junk. Digging out, replacing. Digging out again. I was proud just tapping away at the earth’s surface. Those days were easy. Nothing to fear, no overriding thoughts of angst and nowhere near the complexity of responsibility, work ties and regret I face today which only seem to pull me further from my real purpose. Had I been aware then of what I now know I would have completely lost the plot. None of your romantic dwellings built from melancholic transpositions through time but a realistic spin on the old saying. My time was best spent how it was spent.
Yet I stray once again. I am looking through a window now which takes me to a place. It is very retro. The whole scene could be summed up by the words ‘mark 1 escort’ and as the daylight spills into this scene I could almost touch its glow. It’s christmas and the stars are brightly beckoning santy towards our house. I have no need of presents, however because I know they are nothing but a disappointment, a shadow of what could be a real gift. Like happiness or presence of mind or eating and the like. As the washing machine-like reality of my existence tumbles me wet and sloppy, its rhythmical predictability gives me succour but also conjures up a remorse like no other felt – terrible things to be feeling in tandem.