One day I slowly floated away.

Let us talk about the quality of life for a wee moment.

“Do you realize when you talk, when you say something absurd that the intonation of your voice is just ridiculous?”

Adventures had at midnight on subways in frames of mind that are not to be seen.
Floor floor floor floor.
Lines on the floor. Cracks. The speckled bits, the cemented bits. Grass Grass…
There’s no grass, I’m just kidding. I’m in a city. Giggle.
Shit – STOP.

A single blackened entity is in town. It’s like a fair. A celebration of the individual. This individual – look at him there. He makes clocks for a living. Pocket watches with sliver engravings. Flip tops. For people to keep in their pockets. To have time in your pocket. Do you know what I want in my pocket? A dictionary.
The parade of mind it saunters down streets – LOANS for BUSINESS! HAPPINESS for TUPPENCE! Time, for the low low cost of 200 dollars. It’s art my dear, and it’s cheapened by the unimaginative.

Pay for art would you. You blackened individual on a city street walking east at approximately 5 pm. A person amongst masses. An every man amongst every man.
The thoughts are impeccable, the style is chique, your essence, envisioned by glazed eyes. Appreciation abounds for you my friend, my friend in the black Peacoat, with time in your pockets, the world is at your fingertips. For a price.

On subways during times of altered awareness it seems that everyone is in perfect forms of love. Sleepy eyes resting on shoulders, hands held, eyes looking, with intent. With agendas of affection. Each person a different story of un-waning wantonness. I don’t mean that in such a negative way – if I had a dictionary in my pocket perhaps communication would be more easily facilitated. Between you and me.
I remember once being jealous of streetcar affection, being unable to display it, being unable to have it. Being unable to be affected by it. Europe was a lonely long distance away. But now it doesn’t matter. Streetcar affection affects differently today. It’s more curious. These couples with stripped touques, holes in their pockets and shiny shoes and cleaned faces, they hold hands in mittens. They reminisce about hot chocolates and perhaps more serious details of houses with wainscoting and chair rails. Oh romantic chair rails. Especially when they are not painted white.

A unique individual has Ferris Wheels in “the” mind (‘The’ is not correct, but this is to be a sexless statement, and since we are a gender aware society there is no ambiguous word for person and I adamantly refuse to slap my ambiguous soul across the face with references of “it”) A unique individual, on dreary winter beaten streets, has magic in the mind. Ferris Wheels, apples of multiple decorations, cider, and bees. Minds are good at erasing the smell of oil. We are of a glistening unaffected view of the perfect fair.
A unique individual craves the tastes, the smells of quilts. Especially quilts with “old lady moisturizer” on the threads. Young ladies make them too. And mother’s to keep their children warm. Thoughts of mothers, sons and daughters disrupts this fair, and the reality of the bleak relation to all on these dreary winter beaten streets. People are not ghosts – though it is easy to think of them this way. Oh the happiness, at tuppence a purchase, and then sadness for a greater price yet.
It’s hard to watch the smiles of people who are in a state of remembrance slowly dissipate into something sadder – an awareness of being caught emoting.
Oh, to dance on the streets yelping a song or two. Propriety often breaks my heart.
We are. You know. So why can’t we be?

And: Yes, I know that my intonation, my inflection is mostly ridiculous. It’s because I emote. Often with difficulty and embarrassment. And so living life with my verbalized feelings is an adventure in multiple scales. But let's not talk. (Leave conversation to the stars of the banking district windows at midnight.)

Post Memories of the Girl of the Nice People

The drum of the airplane, it hums loudly. The screws, the construction are wobbly. The plane rides like it were on gravel, not going smoothly through the air. The rickety sounds, the creaking of parts that rub together, the metal that squeals and collections of endlessly crossing wires sit behind me. It is the cockpit with a plastic bubble, and the tube of stuff behind me.

The noise and chaos of firing places, near misses, dives and turns – the generation of sound is as from a radio. It is the 1940’s backdrop to a war commercial, but it is what I hear.

So I walk down the stairs, 9 floors because I hate to take an elevator when my legs are often motionless. The constant turn makes me dizzy, and I come out the other end wobbly, kind of like Gumby I think – but I’ve never seen him.

Someone asks Do you know J- F-? No. Well, he sings r- music and sometimes what he has to say is relevant. A nice change in today’s musical climate. Oh yeah?

I don’t know much about pop culture, is how I answer most of those questions. It is true. F- A- K- E- I don’t know any of those people. I don’t know. I also don’t know L- or Az-, Y- neither. I don’t have the time. I spend my life feeling stupid because I don’t know about those people, but who ever wanted to challenge the norm of acceptance anyway. I’d rather build the underworld. It’s challenging too, as I never understood the mode in which these people S-.

I was in the moors of England once. They’re nice; the grass rolls soft like well worn velvet, where the rough patches represent where the grass has been trampled down. In the field three boys, of which I am one are running and chasing cows. We pull their tails to see how long we can hold on for – either to run or not. Someone gets bucked in the face, and loses for teeth. But don’t worry they grow back – over time, a 3rd set. It’s abnormal how reason can swiggle it’s way into our lives. An experience that turns into comfort like the most silky cup of cocoa.

There is a cycle of viciousness. Don’t assume that the nice people are incapable of adventure, of malicious behaviour, of formal indifference. The cycle is of your assumption of the nice people. And their descendants. And their beneficiaries.

Often they glean life’s lessons from the embittered people, or those whose anger is deemed unnecessary, irrational, malfunctional. They roll concepts in their mouths, like those who roll words, or like children roll gum. At least this one does.

Do you know sometimes feeling is negated by too much imagination? Imagination of things like legends and moral stigma. And then things are not tested in the real mechanics of life, but in the theory of mind: one never learns to accept feeling associated with the flow of life.
So a gift is given and a person cannot cry from thankfulness.
So a blow is given and a person cannot cry from shock
So a threat is uttered and a person cannot reason and fight, but cry.
And the tears are for the weakness of confusion, not for the forthright mind.

A collector of stories sits on a bench by a pond in the park. It’s a sunny day. The collector is young – fourty five, vivacious. She traveled to France once. In her youth.
But she dreamt of going to Africa and then felt she’d been there already. She almost went to a small island in Asia too, but she bought herself a house.
She does cry a little – her books are nought but badly illustrated comic strips, and there are no pictures.

But that’s okay because I’m flying my war plane over heard, above, rickety or not, battle in mind. I am defender of the territory.

I don't like these tattoos.

There is a double meaning for everything. I'm thinking six. There was once a discussion about "interpretation" and it's true that the fires of minds are of different hues and directions. Long directions. Long shots.

The "second" one does NOT have to be sharp like knives, it can be sharp like a brain. Or maybe not sharp at all. The second - dull.(Three meanings) Or it could not be tangible but emotive. A doubly emotive meaning. Or it could be irrational, spacial. Why must it always be sharp: Witty, hurtful, powerful. Could a thought be doubly-yeasty? (I thought of bread rising twice)

I know a girl who's got tattoos everywhere. Everywhere. She put them on her body. She put them on the light encasement of her soul. On her walls.
Nothing absorbed though - perhaps only two layers. They aren't images either. They are words. Singular words They are her name over and over and over again. Her name as she wants it to be.
She is faceless with words that are singular meaningless descriptors. It is words the define the eyes, fake lines drawn by someone, often herself. What is the cause of the lost girl so defined that she doesn't know who she is. Really. She isn't even a dictionary. Just a compendium.
And she eats words too. She eats to earn them. She eats them because perhaps ingestion is the way to salvation. And it is so that the one thing she seeks is more words.

Perhaps she seeks to be an art piece - but she feels it will be a presentation of meaning and experience- and it is sad that we the interpretors will only see it as her misunderstanding. She's aesthetic word art. And she will instead be a mantled doll - an experience for all to come: That to be so extensively labelized, ennumered - especially when you tattoo yourself - is not compensation for simply being.

The words are stiff and encompassing and so she operates within their confines. They've replaced her bones and to tear them down would mean: she is literally skin, and innards. And then what? What are we to do with skin like this? Bones like these? And eyes that are only tattooed and cannot frankly see?


A coded message:
To Hubris Egglebert:
Experiment number two to be conducted with vastly different results from that time - that obliterating day when tele-communication made up for hugs, teas, probably a liquored beverage and a slap across my over zealous face. Why? Because for one time. One time. One Time. One time. one time.
This Time.
I will win.
I'll save my inability to articulate for the people who love me best. Because those are better thoughts saved for better days. Saved for more experience. Because what is to be gained from the straightforward answer: The single line of thought. And I owe that to people who never expanded upon my own words - but for whom I paid that favour ten fold. I owe them nothing.

It isn't deep. It's tired.

I want someone to photograph my brain.

Because I want to prove that what I think isn't necessarily what I see.

PAUSE THE MONOLOGUE: Has anyone ever thought so rationally that what they think is see?
What they what they what they what they what theywhattheywhattheywhahtythathatytae
I'm sitting alone on 19 floors. alone. the same place on every floor. alone - so there are no janitors. building: In a noir town: With twiggy trees: made out of playdough.

Successively. Heads of mine crash on desks and booms are heard. 19 terrific booms.
It's windy outisde.
So I'm sleeping. 19 times. That should cover time. I should have slept but I was the one who didn't. Until odd times - I wish I could sleep until odd times.

There are films about insomniacs. But they're usually on drugs or life trips and I'm simply 19 people, so I guess this is the master plan. And master plan co-ordinates sleep. At least some part somehwere is happy.

Sleep heads desks 19 times, red walls - did I tell you that? Here have my shoulder - because it hurts and i don't want it anymore.
Then the rest of it turns liquid. on the floor, all the time, If it weren't varnished I could be a building, but instead I'm puddles.

Cue the janitor - it's got a mop. and it picks me up and dumps me oustide where I can eat apples off of the playdough trees. Gray playdough - I think I lost my colours for awhile becuase a magazine told me too. (when you mop puddles they become a bucket full so now I'm not on 19 floors - which doesn't matter becuase the building collapsed and now i'm free in film noir somehwhere between trees and big black. ) The Big Black.

This means nothing by that way so stop trying. You at your desk with your pencil. This all means nothing, and it smells salty too. And like alum. SOMEONE TAKE THE FUCKING SHOULDER BLADE. JUST TAKE IT.

The bones aren't so viscous. It's the right word. Think about it.
It's melting and there isn't even summer in the picture.