A Western Morning

A small piece of a joint project forever lost in a fog:

The consequence of being there. Knowing, understanding what is, has been, will never be. The storied past, hours, days, long horrible journeys into the mirror, out through the stained glass portals of faith. There is no substitute. Somewhere in time, if only for a fleeting moment, a beautiful, glorious fraction of life, there exists the meaning.
In a window, nearer to now, the sounds from a street below form some last bastion of peace. Hovers briefly as the television flickers, then disappears into the ether.
A solitary incident, all matter seizes into perfect form, and elements blend toward a white hot junction of benevolence. Time stops. Stops counting, stops meaning, stops lingering.

There is only you.

Breath life into this black chasm. Again.
A twist of plot, sound of sleep, scent of a lifetime passed, and a rush lights sparks throughout a winter evening. Every move becomes an anxious desperate plea held silent since it’s first appearance.

Don’t go this time.

The difference now. Outside looking in. I can see the shadowy figures looming around the rim.
The promise of that moment returning. Defenses turn from dust to a dim candlelit reunion, emblazoned with all the tragic magnificent symptoms of true love.  Tranquility will appear to those who seek it. It only lasts so long.

Now is the time.

Dead Cities

The unseasonable warmth has made this grass so slick.  Two beacons usher visitors towards stone turrets and a bench stares vacant out and beyond a vast dark ocean.  Some things will just always be.  For the rest, and specifically those not chronicled as a piece of historical relevence, there have got to be other means.  Villages flooded, turned into resevoirs, the towering horror that was a fortress, holiday playgrounds cracked and heaving.

These wells are still full.

All through a life.  Clock resets.  Floodgates open then close.  Recollection drifts through a winding treetop daydream.  Disappears.  These moments, foundations, scattered dustbowl alleys washed away like dead cities.

Come back.  Deep into the warmest summers, and further along into barren frigid autumn…what memory lasts.  Flood water recedes into the mire.  Reveal the old foundation.  Stir the dust from another lifetime.  Remember.

Embrace the feeling, when it returns to the well, those waves come rushing.

Digital is fleeting, vinyl is forever.

Everything Falls Apart

This is the last week of reasonable daylight hours.
Reminiscent of a certain time and place, for everyone, different all across the board. Leaf lined roads winding through palace strewn neighborhoods. Wandering. So distinct yet fragile…beginning to slip away. Replaced by new familiarity, new memory, new taste. These decades are forever chasing. Nothing compares. Here at least. There is a mystery, perhaps light years removed. The old neighborhoods are too vast to revisit. Bouncing from one to the next, patching together ghost towns and the spirits who made them what they were. Its always the fall. Happens every time.

Eventually here will be then.

Never feels like it should. Sinking in the haze on a grey wooded path. For the time being, I still remember.

All In A Row

Winding up back, nearly back to the beginning. Familiarity with a miniscule degree of unknown…basically in the details.
What are you doing today?
Finally, a bit of clarity.
Thursdays’ schedule and Wednesdays’ switch roles.
Late late late as priority prevails. Always the chance something new is right around the corner. Uncertainty always lived here , however, the reality of its genuine imminence had never really sunk in. Those shadows are growing taller. Now is the time?

Ah, back to the beginning. Again. Why does it always have to be this way.

By the way, there is no good way to make soundcloud behave properly with the iphone and/or ipad. Its just is not meant to be.


Yesterday, I attempted to kick this off.  It did not work out as well as I would have liked.  Site crashed.  DNS clogged.  Hours lost.  Heres to hoping that today goes a bit better.  As I had been saying earlier.  This is the new repository for the day to day.  Music.  Photo.  thinking.  Basement life again.  Second day at the office.  The weight is already knotting in a shoulder.  Not the work.  Not the responsibility.  The idea.

Cold sets in.  A long way to one with time and in space.  Looking down the barrel of that gun is something everyone can do without.  Slow it down please, it still feels like home.  Whenever that was.