28 February 2011

I Am Still Painting Flowers For You

Oil under my nails, french press on my tongue. This is the antithesis of normalcy. Sing songs, whilst in little white dresses, about a love revival. I'll over punctuate to get my point across. I'm sure I had one - a point I mean, of course.

I shouldn't like to distract from that which is meant to be important. But I can't seem to make my vocal chords cease from vibrating. My shoes weren't meant to be walked long in, so I may ask to borrow a pair. It will be good for me, you know, to walk awhile in yours. It's really beneficial for everyone involved, unless you have the gout.

All my shots are up to date. You simply have to load them, aim, and fire. At what, I can't be quite sure. I am not sure of anything much these days. No, I'm not wearing a belt, but even if I were I'm not sure there would be anything under it. Empty space is always good to have an excess of.

I feel flat. Abandoned soda bottle in the cup holder flat. Afraid to blink because I might miss something that matters. I'm finally standing still and I remember why I don't appreciate the feeling. It's cold and stagnant. Flat soda.

There is a very serious possibility that I've already missed what I'm waiting for. I don't like it here, it's terribly crowded. I want to be invisible. In a large open room where the walls are covered in memories. Flat on the floor, I can focus when I'm creating. It's the only time I seem to be able to muster up patience.

I can pour my heart onto canvas. Bleeding ink onto the page, smearing paint into the mix. Have you ever considered maybe the path your on isn't your own? That maybe you weren't meant for any kind of path that the feet can follow.

Raw milk and honey will fix any problem you might think you have. Snow will cover any imperfection you imagine is there. Ducttape will hold anything together again. But what will hide you from yourself? I've fallen down the rabbit hole and the only way back is painful self discovery. The strange psychological kind where you break mirrors to get away from yourself.

There's too much truth on the ground. I want to pick it all up and give it back to those people it has effected. Pity is altogther poisonous. This place is not where I live. This world is not what I was meant for, I cannot see how it plays a part. I'm exhausted and I can't seem to find my way out of the covers.

I shut my eyes tightly and when I do, I can see stars, galaxies, universes. The world is covered in white black and green, the only colors I really see when I'm dreaming. I'm spinning in circles and catching falling stars on my tongue. It's snowing stars and I'm not cold.

The garden is made up of teacup flowers and evaporating butterflies. This is my imagination and anything goes. The grass is made of sand and there are no shoes here. Instead of flying kites, we attach the wings to one another and take turns in the sky.

Nothing is flat here. Each tree plays whatever instrument is closest to it's heart, a constant orchestra on the wind with the birds creating a chorus. Sometimes things go dark and we fight back the clouds with bottled sunlight. Other times there is injustice, unkindness, mistreatment and we battle that with stronger things. Utopia does not exist for the sake of itself but by the courage of the people.

And as I dream of bigger and greater things, they become more real to me than anything waking. I prefer a world where life is of value and light is of worth. I believe in its possibility. Complicated simplicity. I believe.

If nothing is true, what more can I do? I am still painting flowers for you...

25 February 2011

Call Me When You Get This

If I were to pull off a heist, I'd rob an antique store. If I were to commit murder, I'd slay misunderstanding. If I were to write an autobiography, I'd scrawl it on the walls of a city. If I were to paint a masterpiece, I'd do it with my fingers. If I were to compose a symphony, it would be of wind and silence.

I'd like to walk on my hands so I could see the world from a different point of view. I code my library by shade of meaning. I'm not really interested in competition and I'm unconcerned with winning, but I'd fight you for the memory of it all.

I'll always blame you for growing me up. I abhor vacation time and I detest the work week. Empty walls are empty canvas that need to be covered in otherness. Paint by celcius or whatever you understand it to mean. I disapprove of boredom, it haunts my daytimes.

Fresh as the toothpaste in my drawer. Where are the leaves when you need them? I watch old films and read books that you can't see the title of. I have nothing at all to elaborate upon verbally, so I hope you get my meaning. I sent it to you by post.
The cup is French with Italian innards. I boil my water in a pot, unsure of where it might come from otherwise. Oil pastels are my gloves. Seemingly impossible to remove. I don't appear to have anything to say. But I'll shout silence from this soap box. I eat my own art, the calories few and far between.

I'll scribble on the back of someone elses photograph, making it mine. Demanding truth from the static. The radio plays only that which radiates from it's little speakers. I'm jumping on the ceiling trying to get to my bed. Sparatic ecstatic noise. Fifteen walls, one door, two windows, one curtain.

I've managed an entire post without writing a word. And yet I'm saying exactly what I mean. Most of all I'd like you to understand something. I'm just not sure what it is. But then, I don't suppose anyone is - sure, I mean. Or, maybe, somewhere, someone is.

01 February 2011

You Mustn't Be Afraid To Dream A Little Bigger, Darling

I was a little girl...

To have all the answers, would be a magnificent feat. But I think we seek it too often without wondering, perhaps, if we have all the questions.

Alone in my little world...

I am afraid of being looked up to. There is no greater power than that of influence and I am terrified of that power. As a teenager, I didn't think twice about it. I didn't realize the sway of my opinion, the consequences of my actions that had nothing to do with me. I couldn't see past myself. Now that I can? I am fearful of this power that resounds in me. It echos in the deepest parts of me and I want very much to shut it off. I want to change the world, but I am afraid to do so. I am afraid of the possibility of success and what that might mean for me. I am afraid that I might change the world in the wrong way, that I might use my influence poorly and hurt those around me. Those who I don't even realize I affect. Forgiveness removes guilt, not consequences. You live with those for the rest of your life

Who dreamed of a little home for me...

There are times I think intellect is the greatest fault of mankind. The more you know, the more you crave to know. But the more you know, the more responsible you become for that which you know. It's never ending. With every further ounce of knowledge gained, you lose the ability to sit idly by. Foolishness is knowing yet not doing, Wisdom is knowing and doing. Only those of intelligence can be fools. Are we foolish? In this time where information is an ongoing slur about the world, are we foolishly not doing what we already know to be true?

I played pretend between the trees...

You can hear words all your life, but until you take them onto yourself and give them meaning? You will not understand. There is so much left to learn, but if we haven't taken that which we have already been told upon ourselves, will we ever really know more? Sometimes I feel as if there is more than I could ever comprehend going on in my mind. An overload of information and use of that. I look beyond myself to try to apply that knowledge. And perhaps someday I'll acquire the wisdom I seek.

And fed my houseguests bark and leaves...

Dust of stars, where have you wandered? You have forgotten your first love, forgotten you true self. Come back to the start. This path is in place not to shelter you, nor even to protect you, but in case you desire to follow. It is not commanded of you, is not regulated, you must chose. What comes next, is nothing anyone can tell you of or convince you. You must discover for yourself what lies beyond, if anything at all. Creation dear, what have you done? You have forgotten yourself in your action, whether it is through pride or regret. And if you have forgotten yourself in it, are they not the same? There is nothing worth holding onto. That which is, already has hold of you, so worry not. There is nothing too great, nothing too terrible that cannot be overcome by Love. And real Love is tangible for all who chose to accept it, is it not? But you must feel it for yourself.

And laughed in my pretty bed of green...

Oh to know.