O

Statue of a Saint

It is imagined, that on the day of arrival, that they be symmetrical. That their worlds meet somewhere in the middle. And when a foreign being enter into that sacred space, one should say 'look after yourself' as if the other one is not capable of warning off unwanted spirits. One however is not the only pole. One is not the only man, there is not one man, not no man who may stand on a pedestal overlooking the scenario, the scenery, the light movement of nature which is (of course and anyway) under the control of a higher being- ones own father. Perched there, angel like, one should expect of the other one that the eyes only look in one direction, to the centre, eagerly awaiting ones arrival. Come my other one, come. And yet, they are all waiting around 'the other', all saying the same thing, all imagining that the other delicately take her steps toward them. And this is what one gets by putting himself in the centre, no not many man just one. Static. Expectant. Anticipant. Statue of a Saint.

some people are pigeons, others are contenders of this place, others you wouldn't in the world have imagined, could ever begin to live

M

I can see, that quickly there have appeared a maze of walls to start at defeating us, and water barriers to keep us from the world, sheltering us in artificial cover. I give you moss, you give me moss, and we feed like peasants.  There is fencing everywhere 'for the people', but maybe there is shrubbery too, somewhere, greenery and fields full of food. Flood the gates! Imaginary landscapes! So far, I can only recall the concrete ships,  factories and stones that skip and stop too early at the doom of a day up too soon, in the cold, severely unhappy. But you know more than me. Can you see the aqua in my eyes? Can you see the leaves? Can you see the fishies?

In conflict, in apathy, with mild traces of greenery... we say it to ourselves, daily (in meditation) 'we must begin to live,  w e   m u s t   learn how to live.'
.................................................................................................................................................................. On the tongue is another night of medicinal fodder, a damp awakening on a half camp, a fake rural setting, with a tormented wind swept ambition; to get up and go, to make a meal of it, to make a master of oneself.

home?

In every calm, and every word

the place lacks something, the very moment I step into the lid of its dip,

into its service. Interactive architecture, a world that is built for my manoeuvre. with persons! of whom to interact, easily, even naturally, and paths of which to walk with, not against or at war. I wonder why I feel uncomfortable, then, at my dress and my shoes. Unproper I, am unproper. And so unrelated to the click, and blink, the glance that ends too quickly, the look that never leaves.