No time again, tonight. Life does not fly by as much as it daily snubs us. If we choke of chosen work then through it we gladly noose our days - on freeways on highways on one way home, then back afresh, or else.
Or, up close, most drive home. What we call home, what we find.
No, time does not ignore us, it teases us with age, in years, then decades once owned, now leased shamedly behind us, but owed upon yet as equities expanding, payments ballooned, anchors partially shaped like iron hearts falling backwards sunk deep into the deep, bracing us from the rocks of imaginary shores, kept and held as graspless dangers - always the fault of other's others in their shore drawn flight. Nothing quite anchors like an anchor. Cargo, held in the hold, the submerged ghosts of once assumed wisdoms - quivering voices of past advice - inners, personas, outers.
Falling forward for the Desdemona of Daytona.
Oceans of her. Mysterious, then. Cool, and blue.
Blue and cool, and you and them, and I and us.
So loud was so much less than mysterious.
Barcelona, Pamplona, place and time tanned delirious.
I worry about myself, even though I am not the one to worry most among us.
I worry about fewer, and few.
No, stop it - life does neither of those things listed above, but both, and all, and probably more. It is what we daily choose to do to ourselves, and then each other. We only blame time because there is found nothing but witness, and validity. We assign the fault elsewhere drifting. We often blame before. We learn to grow and fear and hate the passing of it, accord it its due dogmatic praise, or else misguided cheer.
Then, we choose the busy work of our days, perhaps of a vague and vague and vague or undetermined specific terror, a nightmare nightly agreed upon, then quietly dismissed with turned down lights - though this bonfire advances in sunlit advancements. Occasionally do we leap for the unsure grip of young memory, seizures of juvenescence, glandular reactions - mistakes made but never spent, never owed, back towards foolish desires where we all once belonged, ending up somehow both washed and well bent, and still ready for more.
Occupation now occasionally allows us, permits us this, unsmilingly. It grants us the imitation gift of ourselves back to ourself own limitation, in the short term of a weekend, or a day or more called in as sick, or worse, two... We are weekend by it. Two days should only be called agreed. But greed is what we are accused of if wanting to possess one single day more. Assuaged are the inner resentments of lost time with the distractions that we call art: it's life, it's sad, all of us say so, let's hang upon the walls.
When we finally get the time, we'll decorate.
Barcelona, what more mystery is there then, delirium?
Fate?
Art is never the sickness of work, but rather the sickness from it. We tell ourselves the most artless lies in defense of the days wasted.
My job is making me hate art, or making art grow faint.
But, oh, places delirious.... invite my soul to loaf.
... and wander
Sometimes, there is art. Golden pieces slip away from the day, clutching the fragments of leaves lost last year, my feet feel the minerals rise past me, with hands stretched upwards, offering all earth back to the clouds like rain rising ever upwards, through me, without me, beyond my reach.
If only any moment could be held, then loss could be much less yearning, or much less self.
Upon such thin pedestals does life slip by, flipping amongst the acropodiums, jumping from plinth to plinth in the burning daily circus of treetop love.
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