A Brief Explanation

What I have been doing is writing and saving at home. But I have no internet. And then my good friend gave me a USB key instead of pens. What a lovely fellow.

So there are several new posts. Do forgive me for my lapses. I’m in hate with school as of late – which leaves me bitter, and with little time to do much.

Music Lesson

Music lessons make a person very attentive to absolutely everything but the music they are playing – and most attentive approximately ten minutes after leaving the lesson.
An out of brain experience is often a sign that you are either playing so well that you don’t notice your outstanding ability, or that your mind has wandered so atrociously you haven’t noticed the errors.

After lessons your walk is different, the precision and the interpretation of your gait becomes a sensitive point. And because you are now allowed to look left and right not straight ahead or back in at your own brain you now notice other things, other people. And the way the affect meaning for you becomes so much more acute.

Three boys dressed as lackadaisically as they most obviously are scholastically inclined are throwing switchblade knives into the lawn of a small business. This does not lead to the stereotypical worry of my wellbeing and safety – but the wonder at entertainment and imagination for young people in a suburb area with not even a grocery store at which they could ogle chocolate and pop. The world at any place is never an adequate space for an adolescent to call home. We are all lacking and searching for better things – and so where we once were is not where we will end up unless some great light has been shed on its multi dimensional spectrums. And this is how the world shifts and is balanced – for the most part.

Further down the road – not something worth much observation but that a young child’s legs are so severely deformed they were bunched beneath his body, leaving but two inches between his crotch and the floor. He walked like a penguin. It is not with pity that I notice him, but the unique and permanent human shape he creates. He is a square.
He would pose marvelously for a painting, and I think he’d probably make a fabulous back catcher for baseball. Let us hope he does not settle for the limitations normalcy declares his body to have. Normalcy is often a horrid liar.

And finally – the simplest and least extreme – the most exhilarating observation of them all. Sitting on the bus, a violin between my legs a back pack underneath my arm and an elitest book in my hands. I have no recollection of the person sitting beside me. I have no idea what he looks like apart from the fact that he wears jeans. And I was very grateful they weren’t the kind of jeans I’m used to seeing – they were baggy, not tight. He sat at first to the side but then turned, facing frontwards like me. And our elbows were grazing each other. And it was most interesting – for that moment – because I was very excited that I had touched this person’s elbow and would never ever see him again in that same context with that same understanding.
I considered the fact that he was a separate entity from myself, that he lived, and breathed – had done so forever and would continue being until the day he died – that I wouldn’t know the date of his death. But that I knew for that one small moment he was alive. And I was very happy to know that he had existed, and that I was so fortunate as to feel him live.

The great difference is that this man on the bus was a real human being. And everyone else had just been an image running across my brain, and reflected upon – if that. Musings
It is so rare these moments when you fully understand that a person, or groups of people are actually alive. That there is skin and air and then more skin. The space between the two is electric and alive and sensitive – not static, automatic or expected.

Walking home and thinking after some gin.

A Disclaimer:
The following was written while highly intoxicated. I’m just going to leave it as is because it’s precious. (in a funny funny way. I wish I could spend one day with myself while drunk to laugh with myself.) So do take this lightheartedly. And I’ll give you TWO guesses at exactly who it is I’m talking to at the end of the ….discussion.



Winston is pissed and dissatisfied. I fed him two cups. Not the usual half in the morning. But four times the usual at night. He knows I’m gone.

As I walked home. There were shoes and they were blue and they sparkled with no light. As if they made up for the difference. I wondered about that. I would wear them now like magic shoes but I’m completely drunk and so they wouldn’t be really magical. If they were mine now and I woke up in the morning I think I would be sorely disappointed.
The shoes would also be disappointed because I would only sleep and love them and they would never know the adventure they should have had.

It’s amazing. The shorter your skirt is as a woman, the less you want to be with anyone and the more excessive the compliments you get. But even with the current level of intoxication you know it’s horrifyingly fake from those who comment on your lack of self confidence – even though the skirt gives you a bum.

Dissatisfaction starts with repetitions Many many of them.
Isn’t that sad?


?

?

I know many people who are sad because everything is so predictable. Only the really self controlled give themselves the appropriate amount of sleep. And here I am trying to teach myself the depravity of that matter – and loathing it at the same time.


Fight. Fight. Fight. That’s what they say, but they have a luxury and that is time, and space and acceptance. They are allowed to drink on the job. And I think that is a means to an end I do not desire. But I do desire self confidence. And I do desire an understanding of my own philosophy.
And my own limits.

Pretty much an understanding of self – that is key.
It would have been nice if someone had the balls to own up to that. But I’m not an altruist – and that person will just have to accept this fact. I’m not nice.

A discussion of momentum had while drunk.

There are differences in the kinds of sadness people experience.

There are shallow experiences, where things have been made purposefully difficult – the problem experienced for no gain but other peoples’ condolences

Some people create sadness for challenge, a personal experience that doesn’t exploit people’s empathy, but rather disregards their contact. It’s a matter of spite.

There is very little difference. Both are selfish and for personal gain. But what else is this time for than the personal gain of experience – even those small moments of satisfaction where you have given the very end.

I am the person who creates sadness through challenge.
And most unfortunately, my challenge is seen and experienced by others as difficulty. And I face the adversity of their immediate engagement in other’s unassuming and naïve giving.
I am so very sad that those who seek adversity through mere meaningless difficulty are echoes of aloneness, and that they are ignorant of the challenge and personal sacrifice that is needed to be great.

Of course: the greatness through challenge and personal learning. But to what influence – that too is a selfish end.

I want someone else’s happiness. But at the expense of himself. And I am the weaker and sadder person for conciliation – but damn it would be great to be a little less sad, and a little more challenged. '

*Skewed remembrances of conversations with Ryan and Alysha

This is a story about the present.

Margaret, a rather wonderful person, (an adjective that will remain unqualified) is walking towards a fruit stand in a dowdy market. It smells like the incense they typically burn in order to create the mystic mood, or to designate the store as ‘of the earth’. Giant balls of sweat form at Margaret’s hairline that matt her bangs in stringy clumps on her forehead. Simultaneously balls of sweat roll down the line of her back where her spine is surrounded by muscles. Likewise sweat beads against her thighs and runs down her calves in long, thin lines.
It is hot outside, and Margaret is not wearing sunscreen, nor is she wearing a hat. She is acutely aware of this fact and thus her travels become anxious and hastened, creating even more sweat.

Her foot steps are calculated and precise, her navigation between the peoples in the market space is immaculate. She misses no beat, not an empty advantageous gap. Upon arriving at the fruit stand she grabs a green broken basket and begins collecting her usual items and two surprises. Bean sprouts, grapefruit, 4 perfect apples, cauliflower, broccoli and one purple onion. The surprises this week: Pineapple and asparagus. This is done over a ten minute period, slowly.

To be truthful, at first entry she wipes her forehead and bangs with the back of her hand, enjoying the immediate relief shade provides from the sun. She then savours every moment of picking the perfect fruit, or gazing at the prices, of tasting the choice of surprise, of imagining its incorporation into delicious recipes or perfect moments during the day. After about 20 minutes of reflection, and nostalgic bliss, Margaret takes her items to the line up to be weighed, costed and paid for. She extracts the coins from her woven change purse, places her purchases into a canvas bag and begins her return home, on streets ignited by the sunlight, where any moisture yet left in the pavement is extracted, appearing in the distance like clear flames rising. Upon walking she becomes a pool of humidity. Her clothes stick to places on her body in awkward uncomfortable folds and angles. Her hands being occupied, the folds stay that way. Her skirt bunches higher and higher into her thighs. She does mind this, it bothers her and the fact occupies her thoughts as she walks. She feels ridiculous. But that’s what everyone looks like, those especially who’ve purchased handfuls at the fruit stand.