Watching a Flight Take Off

There is an obstinate child. And she (yes she) is conceding.

Let me define something here so that no presuppositions or inherent meanings of the word conceding interfere with the use to which I want to put it.

To concede suggests that you cash in your chips and agree. It's beyond giving up - it's turning your mind over completely to the other side. You can liken it to the term "selling out" and is especially dreadful when done for the wrong reasons.(However, conceding is sometimes good....- if Hitler somehow began to believe in human rights and equality then conceding would have been a good thing.)
This is not to be confused with:
Compromising which means: a number of groups bring aspects to the table to create a whole, or in affect a decision.(A few selfish people believe that compromise means sacrifice. That is a negative take, and often makes people feel like heroes or scandalized. It causes war. People who know that they will be martyrs are not real Saints.)

Let me begin this again.

There is an obstinate child and she, yes she, is conceding. She’s not conceding to grow up. (I know a young man who concedes while he grows up and he will forever after be a wandering sad man because he gave away too much of himself. And you can’t slap a sad man, especially when there’s nothing there to slap. He gambled away his face for a prize he’s unable to share. I miss his eyes.)

I am sorry for the digressions. They don’t illuminate the story so much as the teller and I’m being selfish.

The obstinate child, the very young girl who’s not necessarily conceding to grow up per se, but to the rotation of the earth. (Which will in time change the modifier from obstinate to fluid.) The rotation of the earth is not exactly a metaphor. It is happening and she realizes that if the thickness of her head which controls her motives remains unchanged then the earth will rotate and she will be forever standing still and then she will let herself die and be nothing more than ashes commonly buried. And with today’s technology, her face emblazoned on an ugly stone with impertinent words scrawled across it and dates that are unmeaningful.(I know that’s not a word, leave me alone)

The dates on her gravestone are not the common birth and death dates as conceiving and expiring would imply. But the conception of the first time she exploded, and the last time she broke without repair.

It is not, within ourselves, simply about these boys. She too has to come out and play. But she was beaten once by those horrid instructors of the fine art of living. And she decided at once that being beaten at all hours of the day by the fine arts was perhaps more a purgatory than a passion. Yes, with happiness comes sadness as all those commemorative cards say. But perpetual sadness equates no happiness. (Yes, to that man who concedes, slivers of contentment are necessary. We are no Puritans in hell.)
And so she decided the means to the end of living with the heart, the little girl really, was not worth of it. And so with her life tucked nicely away in that cozy cabin in the back of her ribs, she saw a young man, wonderful and deserving. And so with half of herself she lived.

It is odd. To be alive only half of the day. A quiet unimpeded plodding through the rest of it is really not inspiring and so conversation is like drudgery. A question of an eye that does not communicate what it sees. And when the young man leaves, as invariably all young men do, there were broken bits everywhere and much fiddling with hands to fill all of time incarnate. The slighted liveliness came out of the cabin in the ribs to the see the small girl without the boy and took her hand. They walk to a place not currently inside of a human. It is a glass box. Although they are resigned, liveliness and the young girl, they are still curious. Gathering bits of knowledge, unused, but ready for debate.

It is obstinacy that these bits of information gleaned by people in glass boxes are merely processed records not lessons lived and by. It makes debating dry, and unimpassioned words fall flat. Without passion is their really meaning?
I don’t think so.

The little girl hopes not and liveliness can only be bested for so long by the mundane.
Those people who know they can do better and sit only on the knowledge and not the doing are alcoholics later, especially when they realize that having done nothing knowledge of fake worlds where they did something is relevant only inside and no one cares. Especially about the nothingness accomplished.
Liveliness is jealous of the fruits of the mundane. And so he slips quietly out the back door of the glass box while the little girl broods about people holding hands. Only she can imagine hugs at hard times for so long. She might be crazy, young and imaginative, but her skin is thick.

An imbalance again occurs. Novels are breathing. And parks are trekked with only singular feet.(But the crunch still resonates an ache!) The little girl, she is sill in the glass box peering. But she is conceding.
Slowly.
(Conceding as you might have noticed, for her is not negative. One might even view that she conceded to hide and is now realizing the opposite but I leave that up to you. I’m not reading this.)
She fears smiles, what to do with them? Acknowledge them? The fact a fear is present suggests a change. I know this, and I hope, so does she. How long does one smile for return. It apparently doesn’t matter, perhaps as long as the conversation, or as long as one is still awake.

But she is scared you know, and pacing. And perhaps there is a hint of colour in her cheeks.
Do sit and watch this – the electricity is magnificent!

The Academic

The Camelbak is gone. Lasted ‘bout 8 days.
It fell out of my hands like this brain falls out of my head.
I propped it up with metal rods but it spurns the unnatural.
And now I have metal rods sticking out of my head.

I once defined a tornado head. And now my head spins too except I knit a fish net and it keep things in place while allowing give.
Except for the holes from those metal poles.
That’s where my brain goes.
I will finish that novel don’t you worry.

Oh talk she says. We all know it’s bitch inside this shell.
It’s being too tired. It’s shy. It’s forgetting to embrace air between mouths that speak.
Talk she says. Not for words, because all she says is words.
Wilde makes good words even if it is just talking.

I did turn off that little vessel in my chest. Only for a short break. She walked into the other room and cried. A bit of thinking on her own time, while I can plunge ahead for a bit.
Hopefully she excuses her atrocious behaviour.
She does sacrifice me in a war that all brains hate.

And all I can do now is sit and think about how or why people are falling into each other and using inappropriate voices. All of them liars and babies. (I told you it’s bitch inside) especially while one takes a vacation and refuses calls for emergency situations.

It’s not the lovemaking, it’s the human interaction.
I enjoy the term bumbling. Hopefully someone else will enjoy that too and then bumbling and this other person will scale mountains, bare children, build houses and write novels.

That would be nice. Then no one would have to push or lie about this talking bit that is usually a battle between what’s upstairs and what’s currently on vacation. Both of them impatient beasts so it seems.