life [‘n’ death] / legerdemain – poewieview #15

Tags

2016, boundary, Bowie, death, growth, hills, immediacy, knowing, life, planets, sanity, sky, speaking

                                oh, but she had no boundaries
                the distant hills came straight for me [vague planets in the heavens], I had
                                              I had to demur
                                to keep herself sane
                to keep myself from speaking what
                                              I [did not] know, both

                                                              life [‘n’ death]
                                                              legerdemain

 

oh, Janine, 1969 [clap]; Conversation Piece, 1969 [clap], you like to know me well, but …

Read the collected movements in David Bowie: Movements in Suite Major

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

Bowie wormhole: nothing to write
death & life wormhole: early evening
hills wormhole: where the goblins leered – poewieview #14
sky wormhole: fine droplets / across the glass

 

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sit

Tags

2010, abandonment, ageing, Batman, bedroom, being, biography, birthday, books, border, branches, cape, carpet, cars, Catcher in the Rye, childhood, children, comics, compassion, counting, cowl, crying, Dad, divorce, father, flower, fog, fracture, French, green, guru, history, house, identity, image, leaf, life, living room, lyric, marriage, moonlight, Mum, music, night, numbers, parents, pattern, planets, posture, power, Salinger, self-compassion, sentient beings, settee, shadow, sitting, skyline, speech, stone, sunlight, superhero, Superman, surrealism, talking to myself, teaching, wife, world, writing, yin yang

 

 

 

                           I stared at the pattern of the carpet
                           driving my cars behind the settee
                           while my parents said final things
                           to each other; the twirl of the branches

                           a better life, the curl of a flower;
                           you’d better go, the border; and
                           never step back in this house again,
                           the shadow of the leaf is also a

                           darker green; I had never studied
                           the pattern before – never had to,
                           never could – I can work it out now,
                           see how it repeats; I think something

                           is happening with Mum and Dad
                           on the other side of the settee; but
                           this pattern continues around the
                           whole carpet, around the whole room;

                           only later – in bed – is it announced
                           what I had already known, and only
                           then could I ask why does it have to
                           happen to us and cry; only when it

                           was announced, only when it was
                           expressed; I had already known
                           but I could only count the patterns,
                           I could only drive the cars; and

                           as I cried, I was numb – pattern
                           before settee – I could fracture
                           from the world, just find a pattern;
                           you’re the man of the house now,

                           someone said to me, so I studied
                           the pages of comicbooks – patterns
                           of power, solving under cowl,
                           jumping under cape, between the

                           skyline and the world: I shall
                           throw stones high, until they
                           don’t come down; I shall dig so low
                           that no one could follow, no;

                           I shall count all numbers; I shall
                           collect all numbers; I shall
                           discover all planets; I shall adopt
                           the posture of heroes, no; I shall

                           number the histories; I shall weave
                           the texture of music; I shall taste
                           the shock of lyric; I shall smell
                           the books, no; I shall sunlight

                           the chorus; I shall cry the biography;
                           I shall see the image, and write them
                           into existence, yes; I shall follow
                           the curl and the twist and the twirl

                           under moonlight all the night long;
                           then, I shall play catch in the rye;
                           I shall alors les boulevards; I shall
                           yin the old yang; I shall surreal in

                           the fog; I shall honour my guru
                           I shall marry my wife; I shall father
                           my children; I shall teach in those classes –
                           but forty two years on, he had still

                           just left; and I still didn’t know how
                           to be the man; time to get out from
                           behind the settee, take a seat with
                           all the others, and
                                                  just
                                                  sit there with them all awhile

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

abandonment & divorce wormhole: … back to the outbreath
Batman wormhole: zok! and pow!
bedroom & Dad wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
being & identity & talking to myself & world & writing wormhole: out!
books wormhole: library: start where you are IV // all the distance I have travelled!
branches wormhole: Exceat to Cuckmere Haven
carpet wormhole: Ashdown Forest / 080213 14:47
cars wormhole: after all?
childhood & music wormhole: fantasia
comics wormhole: Detective Comics #345
compassion wormhole: de Boeddha // of light
father wormhole: sight / seeing
fog wormhole: my life / of others
green wormhole: three musicians
history wormhole: Brugges April 2015 – looking lost
house wormhole: House by the Railroad, 1925
life & speech wormhole: “write, let’s break outta here!”
living room wormhole: Woolwich Central – making life better II
Mum wormhole: dream 230315
night wormhole: mauve / night
posture & sitting & superhero wormhole: exactly equal
power wormhole: the continental stride of trains
shadow & teaching wormhole: … anymore
skyline wormhole: The Louvre in a Thunderstorm, 1909
stone wormhole: Evening Wind, 1921
Superman wormhole: escape from Flat Planet

 

my life / of others

Tags

2012, 8*, acceptance, Allen Ginsberg, being, breathing, career, Company Man, eyes, fog, gravity, growth, horizon, life, lifetimes, mauve, others, planets, society, teaching, work

I hesitate before publishing stuff like this – it looks like I’m whining for sympathy – I am not; but if writing cannot be candid – warts and all – it is already damned, so I will publish AND be damned

 

 

 

                                my lives
                                of others

                                how long has this been going on
                how long this has been going on

demands in their eyes pulling me to them like a planet
                pulling on me to contain them
                                pulling deep in me through the latest orbit

                                I give because I can
                learnt silently in the decades
                                I have lived to allow
                yet ever wider in order to include
                                              to neutralise my gravity in order to listen
                                and let them breathe enough
                                              to find their own solution
                decades of leaning a hundred ways
                                                              to be with others
                                decades of privately finding ways
                to rebuild my own gravity
                                                              shiny marbles with petrified ink
                                              then having to let them go
                                tearfully each time
                                                              eventually

                                              all under the great broad horizon
                                lost before the hills on the great broad horizon
                the beautiful twilight-mauve desert
                                and the radiation presence of the close planet
                they cannot do the same for me
                                they will not do the same for me:

                                the stalls and foreclosures are my own making
                my audience extends only as far to conclude
                                that it is all about my awkwardness
                                                              all I have to do is fit in
                                              before I have even finished explaining
                usually I don’t bother to finish
                                or even start
                                              the solution is ready-made
                                                              with a few ‘hmm’s to make it look kindly
                or it is kept to themself
                                echoing loudly in their brains through their eyes

                                              like sharing secrets with the fog
                                                              I find myself alone
                each of them was the last person I could turn to in the world
                                but they all agree with each other
                                              they are the Company Man

                                I have done my bit for the family
                                I have done my bit for the team
                                I have done my bit for the community
                                                                      all by not being there
                                              all by not getting in the way
                I cried when I was acknowledged once
                                                                      it never happened again

                                it’s just
                                              they need to keep from shattering in a thousand pieces
                they need to hold the whole damn thing together
so I give because I can
                                              because it is right
                                                                      but I cannot expect the return
                                                              they cannot give
                                what they expect in return
                for sure things are done
                                              things may be organised
                                                                      sometimes even when I want them
                                              but they are done for some greater good
                for the greater good of a career
                                                              for the greater good of legacy
                                              not mine
                                certainly not mine
                                                              (‘America I have given you all
                                                                      and now I am nothing’)
                                              when I work it is all about them
                when I stop it is all about how they performed
                                all that I do and don’t do
                                              is how it sits as support or burden
                                                              to them
                                conclusion: it is only them who do the work
                                              the thinking the organising
                                                                      I seem to do nothing really
                and do it annoyingly and awkwardly and thinkingly – roll eyes exasperation
                                I have to be managed to be of any competence
                                                              that’s meant affectionately
I am just the recipient of their good work
                                                              what do they call them these days – ‘clients’
                                              my value my contribution what I am
                                                                                 are the price I pay to receive

                so I don’t say anything – what’s the point?
                                I’ll put a few things out
                                              tentatively
                                but I would be patronised at best     if I’m lucky
                                                                                 if the planets are lined up right
                                                              told it’s cute
                or individual
                                              or much too clever to understand
                                                                      or it’s not what was needed
                                              or sorry, Mark, did you say something
                                                              and the audience will move swiftly on
                                to what it wanted to talk about anyway
                                                              or what it wanted to be doing all along
I mostly keep it to myself

                here
                                                                      in the place I claim each day
                                              time to myself bittersweet
                                                                                 at siege from service and compliance
                                to ‘indulge’ myself ‘stay up too late’ ‘contemplate my navel’
                                                              otherwise I get ‘grumpy’
                                              I talk to myself
                                                                      I am not the Company Man
                                                              no one
                                                              to share
                                                              me with
                no one interested beyond the managed
                                obliged
                                              corporate return
                                oh yes I return to myself
                                                              find my own meaning purpose audience love
                                                              safe in the fifty year relationship
                                              which is good for only one

                                the weekends holidays and days off get whittled away
                                                              here and there
                                                                      chips and shavings on the floor
                                              leaving a petrified face
                eyes wide mouth open
                                                              a bas-relief out from being

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

acceptance wormhole: Big Mind
(hidden) Allen Ginsberg & life wormhole: guileless naïveté – / a biographical / manifest -oh!
being & breathing wormhole: honest
career wormhole: sit. / In. / g …
eyes wormhole: awayday / update
horizon wormhole: poessay IV
fog wormhole: my struggle
lifetimes & mauve wormhole: the spectre
society wormhole: 20th century
teaching wormhole: there is
work wormhole: song

 

sit

Tags

2010, 5*, childhood, comics, divorce, Eglinton Hill, fog, green, moon, music, numbers, planets, reading, sitting, sitting room, skyline, speech, talking to myself, voices, writing, yin yang

 

 

 

            I stared at the pattern of the carpet
            playing with my cars behind the settee
            while my parents said
            final things to each other
            the twirl of the branch
            a better life the
            curl of a flower you’d
            better go the border and
            never step back in this house
            again the shadow of the
            leaf is also a darker green

            I had never studied the pattern
            before – never had to
            never could – I can
            work it out see
            how it repeats

            I think something is happening
                with Mum and Dad
            on the other side of the settee but
            this pattern continues around
            the whole carpet

            only later – in bed –
            was it announced what
            I had already known and
            only then could I ask

            why does it have to
            happen to us and cry
                only when it was announced
                only when it was expressed

            I already knew but
            couldn’t express
            couldn’t announce only
            count the patterns
            drive the cars

            I cried but I was numb –
            pattern but beyond the settee –
            I could fracture from things
                just find a pattern

            you’re the man of the house
            now someone said to me so
            I studied the pages of
            black and white comicbooks

            patterns of power
            solving under a cowl
            jumping under a cape
            between the skyline and the world

            I shall throw stones high
            until they don’t come down
            I shall dig so low that
            no one could follow, no

            I shall count all numbers
            I shall collect all numbers
            I shall discover all planets
            I shall posture the heroes, no

            I shall number the histories
            I shall texture the music
            I shall shock the lyric
            I shall smell the books, no

            I shall sunlight the chorus
            I shall cry the biography
            I shall see the image
            and write them all, yes

            I shall follow the curl and
            twist the twirl under
            moonlight all night long
                then

            I shall play catch in the rye
            I shall alors les boulevards
            I shall yin the yang
            I shall surreal the fog

            I shall honour my guru
            I shall marry my wife
            I shall father my children
            I shall teach my classes

            but forty two years on he had still
            just left
            and I still didn’t know
            how to be the man

                      –=+

            get out from behind the settee
            take a seat and get comfy
            say hello to everyone and just

            sit

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

childhood & green wormhole: 1963
comics & divorce & reading & sitting & writing wormhole: warp and weft
Eglinton Hill & music wormhole: south horizon
fog wormhole: 1968
moon wormhole: ‘Batman …’
sitting room wormhole: sitting room
skyline wormhole: biography
speech wormhole: dry rot
talking to myself wormhole: scatter
voices wormhole: satin poem