There is a snake. Waiting in the basement, or maybe just lying there. Around the countless corners, oddly shaped rooms, paths that lead nowhere. Dark with eyes, coiled around itself. For company - a persistent odor, neither pleasant nor disagreeable, just everywhere. Dampness and darkness and time weigh heavy in this air.
You do not know how long it has been there. You do not even know why it came in the first place. You have gotten used to seeing it there, or maybe used to ignoring it.
What do you do when you realize the snake is in you?
You lean in, foolish and fearless, and try to hear what's behind the hiss.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
1000 Strings
The most beautiful, complicated musical instrument that ever was. A string instument, of course. Imagined, designed and faconed by the greatest of masters. Unimaginable music, the kind that takes your breath away. And it did. Vibrations, of endless varieties, on a thousand strings. To be plucked, bowed, or struck, depending on the day.
You watch, at first in horror but now with calm curiosity, as one by one those strings break or are snipped, depending on the day.
What will remain when all those strings are gone? An echo or a memory, depending on the day.
Reminders can be gifts, depending on the day.
You watch, at first in horror but now with calm curiosity, as one by one those strings break or are snipped, depending on the day.
What will remain when all those strings are gone? An echo or a memory, depending on the day.
Reminders can be gifts, depending on the day.
Friday, February 12, 2010
On the nature of damage
Layers, webs, nets - all tight and densely woven - surround a seed. Peel away, untangle, unravel - do what you must to get to it. Take a close look, unhurried and objective. You will not find a truth, you will find a belief. A belief that took seed next to a truth.
Problem is, the truth was a raindrop. It glistened and fell and made something dry, wet. That is all.
The belief was a storm - an epic storm. It downed lines and flooded basements and ripped tiles off roofs.
Do you know what you did? You took shelter - lifetimes of shelter - from a storm that was only one raindrop.
It is still there, you can see it, still just a raindrop. Wipe it with your finger, bring it to your mouth. It will taste clean as you swallow the storm whole.
Problem is, the truth was a raindrop. It glistened and fell and made something dry, wet. That is all.
The belief was a storm - an epic storm. It downed lines and flooded basements and ripped tiles off roofs.
Do you know what you did? You took shelter - lifetimes of shelter - from a storm that was only one raindrop.
It is still there, you can see it, still just a raindrop. Wipe it with your finger, bring it to your mouth. It will taste clean as you swallow the storm whole.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Graffiti on your walls
Lines, grooves, edges, curves. Messages, signs, symbols, signatures.
You can never know if what you're seeing, what you're reading, is what was intended. You can never know if it is irreverent art or spiteful desecration. You are unsettled either way.
Vandal or artist, depending on the day. Either way, you are uncomfortable knowing they were here. This is not a public space. Access is difficult, challenging even.
What did they see as they left their mark? That, you try not to imagine.
More disturbing still, what did they take away?
You must accept what they left behind, bleach will not work, nothing will. These walls, your walls, they live and breathe. Marks made, lines drawn, they are a part of you now.
You can never know if what you're seeing, what you're reading, is what was intended. You can never know if it is irreverent art or spiteful desecration. You are unsettled either way.
Vandal or artist, depending on the day. Either way, you are uncomfortable knowing they were here. This is not a public space. Access is difficult, challenging even.
What did they see as they left their mark? That, you try not to imagine.
More disturbing still, what did they take away?
You must accept what they left behind, bleach will not work, nothing will. These walls, your walls, they live and breathe. Marks made, lines drawn, they are a part of you now.
Monday, February 01, 2010
As within, so without
There is a map on you. A road map of shining silver outlining everything but the edges. No one really knows where it ends, this map. Or even where it begins. It was made without boundaries or borders. If that was intentional, you can't imagine why.
No one has ever read this map, most people haven't even seen it. Which makes you wonder how useful a map it really is. There is no key, no scale, not a single point of reference. Distance cannot be measured, neither can altitudes. You try to believe it could help someone get somewhere, or at least help someone figure out where here is. You're doubtful though.
Dreaming out loud, you picture it as a tattoo. You imagine someone dipping a finger in an alchemist's silver and swirling shining liquid metal on you, the silent canvas.
No one has ever read this map, most people haven't even seen it. Which makes you wonder how useful a map it really is. There is no key, no scale, not a single point of reference. Distance cannot be measured, neither can altitudes. You try to believe it could help someone get somewhere, or at least help someone figure out where here is. You're doubtful though.
Dreaming out loud, you picture it as a tattoo. You imagine someone dipping a finger in an alchemist's silver and swirling shining liquid metal on you, the silent canvas.
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