Tuesday, August 25, 2009
So Time
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
It was upon this very hour upon this very time that the story came back to him and his hands moved of their own accord like the automatic piano in western movies that plays an automatic melody in perfect lines. And so it occurred and the desk showed him where his hands should be. I tell you these many things he said because there is purpose of why I write. I want to get my story out, but I don’t have the voice to let me shout. The words ran along at a great pace this time and overflows filled the now. The time was here the here was now and that was the end of town. A shadow sat on my desk, a beautiful shadow changing with the time of day. At four it was on the left of my desk and slowly it was moving the other way. The direction you may ask was right as the clock does go.
The remains caught in the complexity of interesting favorites where photosynthetic polymers cause changes in Earths atmosphere was were these events were to occur. It was why green stays with perfect design that I write so eloquently. What if we could write for endless time with endless meaning, never taking a break. Our hands would be quite strong don’t you think. How many taps on a keyboard can a computer take. Is it as many as what are required by the manufacturer? Maybe we should measure the taps on the keyboard by how many books can be typed on them. “Well that there contains the whole story of All Quiet On The Western Front, yesm a book of quite a large magnitude only made larger by the many revisions to make it so. A hot potato is exactly that, baked for a certain amount of minutes at a certain number of degrees and then put to rest for consumption. Why has the game been devised then? Who had the crazy idea to do so and especially with such temperature and such a strange object?
What if I get tired of writing asked the man and the desk so calmly replied. Well then do what you must and do what you do for that means that I also need time. For a story is such where truths are made and made they have to be. In order to make we must first learn how to live so we can represent and replicate clearly. So the man who’s hands were tired so gave up on the adventure for today and the table that caused the mans hands to write sympathized and called it a day. Come back tomorrow he said in a voice like the air that is understandable only by some. And the man agreed and they left the need to go on at another time
A Story To Start
What led him to choose the path he choose to lead. What force was beneath him that allowed the snap of the fingers within his hands. The air con blew around him, the whimpering of air streaming through an endless void. What was he doing,? where was he going? What was this perpetual journey he had set out on? What was his past telling him? Why were his thoughts coming in fast like the wind on an endless journey? He knew why and he knew when, but somehow he knew neither of them. Was chocolate his motivator to keep the key board typing and his fingers thinking, was that why he was driven to write? Or was it something deeper, something altogether different? It was a crazy force that spun his mind and didn’t tell him what direction he was going. It was the camera lens behind the camera that sneaks views into picture. It was his simple joy to weave words together like the waves of the ocean overlapping one another on their way to a distant shore. He liked the way that thought could be put together with superfluous flow and how the mind could conjure this creation. It was an animalistic desire to do this. It quenched some deep longing in his soul. He loved language for the same reason. The thoughts could be generated by flips of the tongue that rhymed to a beat unimaginable to the thoughts surrounding them. Yet the words were soft like the wind on the sea or the trees on a mountain, ancient in their discourse, warm in their tone. Would he know no end to his existence? Was time a mere representation of space crammed with purpose? That is what is mind thought up everyday of every hour, and yet there was joy in those hours of purpose. He liked freezing images sending them to the world letting others observe. The mere sunset was something of a snowflake where each time was a different dance to a different beat. There was temptation and oblivion to escape from. He sat on a couch for many hours in silence except for the humming of ticks on clock that strung character into the room. There was a characteristic about the way his eyes blinked that hinted at a normality in his thinking. The key of his thinking was not the think. For thinking too much constantly drove him into a series of complex workings of the human mind, which were hard to decipher at best. It was by doing these simple ramblings that he was able to free his mind and let the supreme work on their own. It was at these times that life lingered on linguistics and languished the lamentable lines of disintegration. How had he come upon these words? What was his fascination with the serenity or everyday speech? What mind would dock such things in discernable grace and leave the cupboard open for more paintings.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
In Japan?
Blank White Paper
Though The Soul Is One Within Your Time
I`ll Rock To You Baby Because I Always Want To See The Way You Fly
I Was Walking On The Shore To Show
All The Places I Would Choose To Go
It`s The Laps Of The Waves And The Simmering Of The Sea That Lets You Know
When You`re In My Arms And I Can Tell
When I Write On Your Back And I Spell
It`s The Pictures Of The Sun The Places I Never Want To Kill
You See It Though You Never Have To Say
Here I Am Staring Up At The Day
We Are Living Today
Every Scene Is Just Another Flip Of The Page
Now The Song Is Slowing Towards The Beat
The Melody Of The Words Will Come And Meet
It`ll Never Match The Rhythm You Have Inside Your Feet
You See It Though You Never Have To Say
Here I Am Staring Up At The Day
We Are Living Today
Every Scene Is Just Another Flip Of The Page