Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Glub glub glub, there's some room in my tub. (Don't touch my nub) (Oh okay, do)

I didn't realise, but from where I work by day in the green woods by the river, I can see the clearing beyond, where the castle once stood. I walk toward it. I, investigate. Nothing remains but remains. The remains of remains even. No wall, no crowd, no noise but the empty whisper of the wind which hurries by. I listen for a message and there is none. I hold my hand out and feel its impatience as it shoots across the sky toward somewhere, anywhere but here. This is a dead place. I died here.

My head sinks and I crouch down, to touch the earth and remind myself of what is what. I caress the grass which disguises the past. I build the castle wall in my imagination, but the image shimmers and disappears, diving into the pool of my subconscious and leaving slight ripples which fan out to nothing.

Something glimmers and I walk toward it. A rock, a single stone laying beneath a haircut of green and I pick it up and read what is written and I close my eyes just for a moment and let it sink in then fall behind me forever.

It says: you did this.

Well, I think, it was a little more fucking complicated than that. But it stabs a little all the same.

And the wall that once was here is now a scale model around my heart, though each day I feel the gentle tides of the ocean wearing it down to nothing, and look forward to the day when the water breaks through and envelopes me.

And I toss the stone in my hand and catch it. One, two, three...and I throw it as far as I can, beyond the horizon and toward the sun and behind the mountains and far, far from sight. It tugs as it flies, pulling taut the web which connects it to me. But it flies away just the same.

I think quite clearly; Love has destroyed far more than it ever created.

Walking home I make sure to walk new paths new roads new views new scents new new new and as I crest the hills there it is the ocean, and its welcoming arms stretch across the horizon and the reflection of the sun upon its face is a happy so real I simply laugh and run toward it. The web still tugs, but I can't feel it underwater.

Think I might just grow me some gills.

********

Some people are avoiding me, and I'm hiding from the world, and some people think I'm avoiding them and the whole thing's a fucking dance, especially here, in my SIB*. But all I know is, eventually if you want to and if it feels right then you start to do day to day what's right for you. So home every night, two months now, skin looks good, brain is working, chipping away at what needs to be done, though there is always more. Write some songs, read Nabokov, watch Top Model, do everything you need to do, just to stay happy. I'm staying happy. I'm helping myself. That's not self-important. It's just important. Stay off the net, don't look back, don't worry - don't fret, the sun is rising and with it a new fucking day. A new fucking era.

And somewhere out there, someone will read this and say, you're a cheesy fuckwit.

Laugh out loud. Roll on the floor. Smiley wink face. Random Access Memory. Keyboard, blog, website etc.

And I care so much I may just cry and every fucking moment will pass and fade as tears in the freaking rain.




*Self Indulgent Bubble.

10 comments:

  1. I love you I love you I love you.

    Sigh. If only I had the pretty words.

    *deletes*

    *again*

    ReplyDelete
  2. Top Model is a vice all it's own.

    And there's no good reason why taking care of yourself should translate into absolute self indulgence when not taking care of yourself is equally as self indulgent-- just more destructive so it's considered fun. Which it is. Sometimes. But even planes need to gas up, wash off, and bang out the dents before heading back up.

    xx

    ReplyDelete
  3. Who loves what and what is deleting who?

    This joint is so fucking weird.

    Innit Pony?

    ReplyDelete
  4. i want to say i admire what you're doing, but i don't really know what it is.

    i also want to say the bath imagery is nice, methinks there needs to be a bathblog somewhere, i know of at least 4 of us who dig the bath big time, but please don't say nub. nub = hedwig's piece and that's not nice imagery.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Well, thanking-ness to you. The thing is, all I am doing is, absolutely nothing. Generally conversations with people go like this at the moment:

    HEY!

    Hi!

    What's been happening?

    Nothing. I'm doing nothing. It's great. I go to work. Then I go home. Nothing.

    Oh, well, see ya.

    I'm immersing myself in the complete bliss of a boring closed up shop winter and I'm fucking Larry. Oh yeah.

    ReplyDelete
  6. It might be weird, but it certainly inspires a lot of love. And sighing, deleting and multiple wishes for beautiful verbal usage?

    Not to mention cleanliness. Which bumps up next to godliness and is as holy as you can get whilst in h-e-double hockey sticks.

    And as a warning: if you do start up a bathblog, make sure not to call it BATHLOG.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Get your poo references OUT OF MY BLOG!!!

    Still, it is good to see so many familiar faeces.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Hey, you could also call it "When A Good Anal-ogy Goes Bad."

    ReplyDelete
  9. I like that one, I'm going to write it down in my secret diarrhea.

    ReplyDelete
  10. sounds a lot like the journey I'm about to embark on.

    ReplyDelete