Indirectness

“What we say is also an important clue to what we mean, but we don’t always say what we mean in so many words. We balance the conflicting needs for involvement and independence by hinting and picking up hints, by refraining from saying some things and surmising what other people meaning from what they refrain from saying. Linguists refer to the way people meaning what they don’t exactly say as indirectness.”

When I went home for the Christmas holidays I started to notice myself regressing. In all honesty, at uni I’m the “mother” of the group, and even though I’m the youngest I’m probably one of the more mature ones. I like to think so anyways. But at home, I’m the precocious and misunderstood teenager who battled her parents every day for a good two to four years. I do feel sorry for my parents, but it got me thinking…what is so different at home so that I behave differently, without even realizing it?

I started to notice conversations such as:

“How’s the room tidying going?”

“ Dad, I don’t need to tidy my room.”

“Ummm…I think you do young lady.”

And:

“Beth, would you like to do the dishwasher?”

AND:

“What, we have to eat all together?”

“FINE. FINE. *Generally blows her gasket in fury and angst*”

Old Deborah Tannen may be gaga on many accounts of linguistic rules and opinions, but this element of indirectness actually has a point. By treating me in an indirect and passive way, the idea is that I don’t get pissed off by being told what to do. However, by my parents not saying what they really mean a lot of the time, I don’t twig what the hell the want from me.

MISCOMMUNCATION = ARGUMENT.

It has to be said, in many cases this scheme of metamessaging does work. The tone of voice, facial expressions and gestures are all dead give away clues. But why do we as a species have such a backwards way of communicating? Why is it so difficult to say exactly what we mean?

“Yes, that does make you look fat, but this other dress makes you look hot.”

“Actually, I’d really like it if you helped me out.”

“Please can I have a sandwich too?”

Doesn’t seem so hard. But you know as well as I do, it really is. Not sure why to be honest. But I know that when you say/do nothing, expecting something happen, chances are it won’t. An example:

Cynthia told Greg she was a little upset because he had fixed himself a snack and not made anything for her. Greg was confused, because Cynthia never mentioned she was hungry or that she wanted anything. Cynthia rolled her eyes and said she wasn’t hungry; it was just that he didn’t think to ask.

Classic. Admittedly, this is stereotypically a more female trait, but men do it just the same.

As a person who loses her temper a lot and gets wound up easily, I think it is important to remember that not everyone is thinking the same as you are. In fact, it is probable that no one is. So, before I get offended or upset, I need to consider; what is their train of thought? Maybe the world would be a simpler place if everyone was just straight with each other, and didn’t rely on backwards messages. Maybe it would be havoc, and everyone would be in angst 24/7. But for the most part, I think speaking our minds is a good idea. Being truthful and honest may be hard, but if we are clever and use this ridiculous language to our advantage, I’m sure honesty will be appreciated.

I’ve said before that truth is the bully everyone pretends to like. I stand by this, but a bully is always needed to keep everyone in order…sometimes. What would we be without levels, rules, and a balance of power in every day life?

Soul Mates #2

“I don’t know anything, at all.”

Pretty accurate quote for the mood right now. Have you ever given advice but been unable to accept it? Don’t smoke. Don’t do all the work yourself. Let him come to you. Believe in yourself.

Why is it so easy to dole out these sentiments but impossible to apply the very same ones to your own life? Seems odd.

I like to think everybody has his or her hang-ups and baggage. Some are just better at covering them up…actors. The whole world is a stage, is it not, William?

This is another one of my pieces where everyone can find something true to themselves. We all feel like we have the worst deal, which is probably why we are so good at counselling others. Is this an element of human nature that is completely innate, or just a personality trait? For me it’s the former. Even though talking things through with the ones I love can be a heavy burden, I really don’t trust anyone else to do the delicate job quite as well as I feel I do. So in that sense, I’m happy. It’s a gift to be trusted so much.

It takes a lot for me to discuss my baggage with people. As much as I expect people to be open with me, there are extremely few I would consider the agreement mutual. Not really sure why…I guess that’s enough on that.

What is friendship without trust? False? No not quite. Just shallow I think, and not shallow in the conventional sense. Shallow in the way you play in the shallows of the ocean, but don’t feel quite brave enough to swim out far enough so that you can’t see your feet. I think trust is when you know you can swim into the deep, and know for sure that you can bob about on the surface quite happily, even dive down every now and then, and not get dragged under. When the trust is broken, for whatever reason, that is your great white circling beneath you, trying to figure out the fastest way to wrap its razor sharp teeth around the edges your heart.

The worst is when they don’t realize that the shark is theirs. The damage is done, and you’re not quite dead just sinking, watching the blackness of deep water press in on your eyes, suffocating your soul. And while you are slowly but surely giving up, to put it bluntly, they are STILL chatting shit.

It’s the hardest thing in the world trying to swim to the surface without a heart people, but worth doing. Don’t let the bastards get you down.

So, moving on from that lengthy metaphor, I’ve decided it’ll suit me for now to continue not trusting many people, to allow them to trust me, and to put up with the bullshit. Listening without feeling has got to be considered a talent, no? At least I’ve found a few more people who will come deep sea swimming with me. Thank god for friends.

I’ve written recently about soul mates. Surely if I decide my friends are my soul mates, that solves the problems of being pressured into looking for one? Hmm. Definitely good enough for me. “Don’t worry, be happy.”

I Know Nothing of This

What is love?

Why is it so viciously important?

To be loved is the safety and vulnerability of a tiny quail’s egg.

To love is not so different.

To be more secure and more exposed then you ever thought possible.

Ice skating on a liquid ocean, encircling the circling shadows that watch from below.

Question is, when you reach your palms out to be embraced by the sky and to be held tight by the universe;

Will it catch you? Or will your last breath be tormented by your fingers scrabbling in vain towards a merciless eternity, reaching up and away from you the longer you gaze into it’s desertion.

The frozen water into which you have ungracefully fallen softly ripples against your skin and bones like knives so you sink, and the blades reach into your stomach and cripple you with dead butterflies, broken violins and clichés.

But then? Maybe a pair of warm hands drag you to the shore, hot pebbles steaming away your doubts and fears. The face you love smiles, hands you a pair of ice skates, and you allow yourself to be swept onto your feet

Out onto the innocent, winking ocean. And you let this repetition summersault through eternity…all in the name of love.

Hair

I read an article in Elle or Vogue magazine a while back about a woman who did a little experiment, going from bleach blonde to chestnut brown. Her conclusion was that blonde is not just a hair colour, it’s a whole way of being.

Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But things like hair colour, height, skin colour and even nose shape alter the way other perceive us. Hair colour is one of those changeable things, and even if it does seem juvenile and girly, the difference in how you are received by other people is noticeable. But where is the line between how you have subconsciously reacted to the change and how others have? The first time I went brunette I loved it, even if it was a little more black and green than anything else. I dyed it myself again, counteracting the green tints with elements of red, and I felt it was all tickety-boo. This brunette regime lasted about 10 months, and by the end of it I had lost all my self-confidence. It was odd, people had started treating me with new levels of seriousness which did not sit well with me. I got ignored and interrupted a lot as well. NOT good. Obviously other factors in my life had thrown me into a bit of a dark spiral, but I cannot help remembering the amount of people who thought it was inoffensive to say “oh what have you done that for? I preferred it blonde.”

I did change back to blonde…somehow it just seemed to boost my personality, but I can never get over how some people don’t seem to mind offending you straight to your face, with no tact. Admittedly, it tends to be friends of the parents or family members. Just a few weeks ago my cousin glared at my cartilage piercing and said “urgh it’s disgusting.” Obviously I thwacked him one. To openly look at someone, to judge a physical change, a choice they’ve made, and call it disgusting? I would say, that is not good etiquette.

Today I went to the hair salon to get my roots done, and I was told low lights would be a good idea. 12 hours later? My hair is greeny brown. And suddenly all those insecurities from 2 years ago come flooding back. I feel like a mouse wending my way around millions of elephant’s feet, insignificant, ugly and unimportant. But how, in the space of 12 hours, has a hair colour altered me from a confident, over outspoken lass into this? I guess it has to do with how we perceive ourselves as well. For example, I look in the mirror and see my nose piercing, and I like what it says about me. I liked what my blonde straggly hair said about me. What exactly these things told the world, I’m not really sure, but it’s the way I’m received by the world that tells me this outward impression can’t be too horrifying.

I’ll go back to the salon tomorrow I think, and hopefully they can fix their fifty quid mistake. But the moral of this story is if you finally get to that point where you are happy with the way things are don’t change a thing. Why fix something that isn’t broken? Why replace something that still works? Tell that to my 6 year old and sadly deadened Motorola flip phone.

It seems cliché to encourage self-adoration, to do that stereotypical grin into the mirror every morning. That’s just ridiculous. Everyone has stuff they dislike about themselves, and that’s okay as long is it doesn’t mock you too heartily. What I’m saying sounds obvious, but just don’t change the good bits! And that means the bits that are good in your opinion. Ignore others, your mistakes are yours to make.

You will always care how the world sees you. But fears and insecurities are just emotions. Fear itself, cannot harm you.

(This is the part when you roll your eyes and say “No shit Sherlock.”)

Not wanting to fall into the realms of an ordinary life

On Christmas Eve I overheard my mother and my aunt getting extremely excited over a new kind of dishcloth that can clean any surface with – wait for it – JUST water. Honestly. Wood, lino, kitchen surfaces…wow. I had a bit of a panic. Will I get to that point in my life when I start to get excited over good cleaning products? Will the stereotype remain through time at that level of intensity that, even though I have a job, my main career is cleaning up after husband and brats?

I love a messy room, filled with random stuff. Bottles, old keys, photos, magazine cuttings and jewellery being my favourite decorative items, I am comfortable surrounded by, well, crap. And junk. “Get rid of anything in your life that isn’t useful, beautiful or joyful.” But what happens when useful becomes the main priority? I just hate the thought of being that water droplet on a car windowpane that you watch slowly but surely trickle into the same course as all the others. Child. Teenager. Student. Adult. *Insert low earning and low achieving job title here.* Wife. Mother. Grandmother. Dead.

Is it childish to hope that I can lead a life of joy and adventure, a life to be remembered? I know all young’uns hope for it. And every single last one of us thinks “It won’t happen for most people…but it HAS to happen for me.” Because even with this sense of an ominous future looming ahead of me, I want to live. Not because it might be the only life I have, or life is short, or any other theological or philosophic reason. Mainly, I want to live my life how I want to, because I am selfish. Are you not?

The idea of having children doesn’t appeal to me. They seem to me to be like little anchors, which grown up and get heavier, and the whole time you are looking after them, keeping the rust off (with varyingly successful cleaning products no doubt) you don’t notice that your ship has been in the same god damn place your whole life. What have you achieved apart from continuing the human race? Not such a skill, I would say. I think my ideal is to find someone likeminded who I wanted to spend my life with, but not “settling down” as the phrase goes. But shaking it up. Doing and seeing everything, going everywhere. It seems bizarre, against the norm. But there is no reason why one shouldn’t aspire to something against the norm.

I wonder if, in 15 years, I’ll look back over the things I’ve written in this blog and laugh. Laugh because I am the only person to have read it, or because I have lost all of these hopes. Maybe. Maybe I’ll live in a 3-bedroom house, learn to cook and have lovely children and be really happy, see it as a success. A change of opinion that comes with growing up. But right now, that easy route the raindrops take? I would deem it a failure.

I get this feeling every now and then that my life won’t be as long as I assume it will be. As depressing as this sounds, it’s not something that bothers me. Que será será. As long as I have a million memories to occupy me on my death bed, I’ll be fine. Death doesn’t scare me. Dying in a painful way does, but that is just an inevitable fear.

Compare Annie Leibovitz and Rankin. Both extremely good photographers, known the world over. Rankin, albeit talented, is an arrogant money grabbing douchebag. In my humblest of opinions that is. A friend of mine worked with him briefly and informed me that he was very self important, pleased with himself. Now Leibovitz must know she’s good. She’s taken more Vogue covers than any other photographer, and captured a very impressive amount of celebs. But she has her privacy, she is modest. Apart from her overly publicised financial problems in ’09, she has keep to herself over the years. When I look at pictures of her, she has this look of content and knowing. Two things I strive to gain in life. So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m happy sauntering through life, rather than running so fast I miss everything on the way to the finish line. But once I get there, if I’m lucky, my trophy will consist of a wealth of mind-blowing memories. Well, if only time will tell, let’s give time time.

Taboo in my personal ranting opinion

It is said that taboo was created by the early Victorians, and that they decided certain elements of life ought to be considered with care; sex, as an obvious example. Because sex is clearly vulgar, unnatural and not to be talked about. I personally have been brought up to get an uncomfortable twist in my stomach when people talk about it…something that is being heartily beaten out of me by my beautifully open uni pals. (I still maintain that Wetherspoons in Canterbury may not be the best place for debates of this nature…especially when a family with smalls are at the next table.) But why is sex hush-hushed but something like violence isn’t? Drinking and smoking aren’t either, yet these are behaviours and activities far worse than sleeping with someone you love.

Lady Gaga. Fashion inspiration (to some) vegan, celebate and quite openly crazy. Her music videos are on the tellybox before watershed and she lashes about, in vicious bikinis and in weird attire. In the space of one video, she promotes poisoning people, wearing police tape in convenient places, getting on strangers and smoking via a pair of lit cigarette sunnies. Now I adore fashion, but wht the hell is that?! Funny how girls in prison all wear heels, designer threads, a severe amount of leather and have a make up artist on hand. I don’t have children (thank god) but I would be horrified if I knew that my little girl was idolising the woman who dances in a bra and thong or less for national telly. This isn’t sex… it’s the suggestion of it, which in modern times is now worse. The implication of violence, of dirt, of drugs and making people perceive this as glamour…All I can say is it’s no wonder the world is royally fucked.

The problem is association. People tell me I’m cruel for going shooting for pheasants when they eat the birds themselves, but my apparent association with a lethal weapon is taboo. People are more worried about kids playing violent video games than actually doing sport such as wrestling or Kung Fu. Bikinis are acceptable in public, underwear isn’t. Where have all this bizarre and conflicting rules come from? Having sex is evil but displaying 98% of your skin for the world to see gets you famous? I’ve said it before; we are hugely illogical beings. Wanting only what is bad for us, relishing in expensive things that ruin our planet. I would have thought a race that has succeeded at the top of the food chain would have had better innate instincts. Survive. A combination of MacDonalds and anorexia. Knowing how to use a gun and how they are often misused. Once non-harmful drugs and illegal backstreet cocaine cut with bleach. Billions being spent on saving the world and funding the creation of jumbo jets and Hummers. What are we doing?

The Earth is over 4.5 billion years old. Life didn’t come into being until about 2 billion years ago. “Land plants did not appear until about 430 million years ago; reptiles, 300 million years ago; and modern mammals, 75 million years ago. The first apes appeared about 35 million years ago, and the first apelike men, about 10 million years ago. Man, himself, has been on earth for only about 300,000 years.” The Roman Empire was in reign for 1000 years, the British; less than 200. At the rate we are going, we won’t last.

I just wish that I could see some form of change in my lifetime. Maybe it will become fashionable to actually be a musician before creating free soft-porn on daytime TV. People will want to learn how to use the weapons they insist protect them. A quarter-pounder with cheese will taste worse than a bowl of garden peas. Maybe eventually we will be able to talk about everything freely, without be judged or accused. No more taboo. In my lifetime though? Doubtful.

City People

This is an article I wrote a year or so ago for YEAH magazine -

http://www.yeah-magazine.com/

"London is the epitome of an oxymoron. Beautiful in it’s grime; colourful in it’s concrete. When I hear urban, I think London. Once I was lost in and around Leicester Square and I had wandered up and down the same street about four times when a homeless guy stood up and walked over to me. Another oxymoron. He didn’t mug me as the fool in me expected, but smiled and said, “You wanna go left at the other end of this road love.” Only in London can a poor man politely help out a stranger, whereas a rich man can be rude to waiters and leave no tip.

The vibrancy and variety in London is part of what makes it triumph over most other places I have ben. It’s why when on holiday I tend to think “It’s nice here, but it’s not England.” I can go to a ballet and get MacDonald’s on the same road. Eat foie gras and go to a basement club on the same square. It’s not dissimilar to wearing a ball gown with a hoodie, trainers and chunky gold jewellery…you would never think of it, but somehow Lily Allen can pull that shit off.

The trains are even stranger to me. So many different people streaming on and off, never speaking, never even acknowledging each others presence even if they are standing mere inches away from each other reading the same book pressed against their noses. Ever noticed how a crowed train carriage can be silent, yet one with two people in it can be deafening?

When I go to London, it’s more of an exciting trip than the norm. I usually head straight to Camden Loch with a load of friends and see how much free stuff we can get. Start at Starbucks, because they always have endless trays of mini tasters, then go around talking to the mowhawked, pierced and tattooed advertisers of the underworld giving out leaflets. Haggling with the stall owners, getting bargains, eating dodgy pizza and fooling around with my friends seems to be the perfect day to me. So why is this a businessman’s idea of a bad day? As men who commute to London everyday, they can’t fathom how intrigued us young’uns are by the city. Instead of getting a travel card and trying to go to as many places as possible, he will go out for dinner or to a wine tasting session with colleagues.

Initially, I can’t help but to be in awe of the sparking lights, the buildings, statues and the massive billboards. But what really makes London what it is, is the people. The snobs, the homeless, the preachers, sellers, buyers, eccentrics, businessman. This bizarre combination of so many opposites makes our pride and joy extraordinary. What do they see when they avoiding each other’s gaze when walking out in the city?

It’s ridiculous how isolated the city people are in their own personal space. It’s not the tea, scones and Big Ben that makes London urban (although we do love these things.) It’s the behaviours of all these people. Next time you’re in London, just stop and look around you. This is the reality of urban life – don’t waste it."

Compromise

I think a problem we as the human race have willingly acquired is this desperate desire to reach that ultimate goal…universal happiness. I, being young and naïve, of course believe that every aspect of my life will fall magically and conveniently into place. I’ll get married at 30, have a million jobs offers the day I leave university, and be comfortable and perfect for the rest of my days. And everybody thinks that. Now there is nothing wrong with ambition, but when did mere contentment with what you have gained become a cop out?

It’s a shame everything nowadays is either dramatized, bubble wrapped or sugar coated. There is no real happy medium anymore. You have glossy celebrities, failed celebrities, and we all know how dismal the news is. When was the last good thing we heard? A celebrity marriage perhaps…because they last long enough to create optimism, obviously.

As I’ve said before, there is a large portion of me that relishes in simplicities, and even more so in beautiful flaws. For example, my lovely friends and I have achieved a brilliantly grown up goal of renting a house for next year. As I walked around the place I fell in love with the dated carpets, the flaking paint, the slightly dusty and potentially destructive wooden floors, the rusty hinges and the curtains held up by drawing pins thumped generously into the wall above the window. Could I be so smug as to say I can apply this love of imperfections to what I want out of life?

Certainly not.

Back in the day men would follow the professions of their fathers and women would be happy as secretaries and/or mothers. There was no such thing as a job not worth doing. People were willing to work hard for their pay, and were willing to pay for the things they needed. I admire this more trustworthy way of being. Nowadays we all want as much as we can get for as little as we can pay. And the more you pay doesn’t necessarily mean better quality either. A tailored suit could cost a lot less than a shiny designer one off Asos. So what am I trying to say in this meandering babble?

I guess I’m saying it’s a shame, the way we have grown accustomed to living. We are all sticky fingered little bastards in one way or another, always on the lookout for what we can get our paws on. I’m no different though, and I would be lying if I straddled my high horse and said I was. Such is life. But I’m pretty sure I was born after my era…1921 would have done me perfect I think. Days of chivalry, patriotic pride, and not a scrap of bubble wrap anywhere.

A few little tid bits:

1. There's a fairly girly and ancient poem by Sara Teasdale called "The Look." Found it in one of those books that smell old called "Gay Yet Wistful."

Strephon kissed me in the Spring,

Robin in the fall,

But Colin only looked at me

And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,

Robin's lost in play,

But the kiss in Colin's eyes

Haunts me night and day.

2. I'm reading a book called Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. If not for the story, which is true and incredible, read this for the quality of writing. If I can ever write as impeccably as Roberts, I'll die happy.

3. When feeling like your feet are a little too far away from the ground, listen to a classic - Vienna, by Billy Joel. I find it's a winner.

Henri

A wise woman once said, “get rid of everything in your life that isn’t useful, joyful or beautiful.” Admittedly, another wise woman also advised young writers not to fulfil a pitiful cliché by starting a piece with “a wise woman once said.”

I am currently in my tiny and abysmally messy room at university, hiding from the snow and people. Being cooped up in this box of slight madness probably isn’t good for the soul, but being alone when you want to be is, so I guess that counteracts it somewhat. I have been here a mere 10 weeks, although it seems like longer, and already I have managed to plaster the walls with my favourite things. Landscapes of my uncle’s farm, seascapes of the beach in Beer where I go with my parents. A few photographs of friends, some of my favourite works. Henri Cartier-Bresson…I’ll come back to him. Articles I like, beautiful women from the shiny pages of Vogue…inspiration? To an extent I guess. More solemn and secretly unfortunate hope. Remember…nobody really looks like that.

“If you are tired of the old, create the new.”

I must admit, I’m pretty proud of that one. Perhaps I should copyright it, but in a more dignified way than Paris Hilton trying to copyright her signature phrase “That’s hot” a couple of years back. But my quote is flawed, mainly because I am just that kind of painful and indecisive person. I want to spend my days writing in the middle of a snow sodden field, warming my feet on the black flagstones near the open fire in the back kitchen of a farmhouse. I want to go on walks, to appreciate the simple things, and keep my feet firmly on the ground. I want to breathe air that is so clean and crisp I can taste it, feel it billowing down my throat and through my veins.

However.

I also want to stay awake all night mocking the streets of London. I want to sweat and feel grime beneath my nails. I want to dance, to run and to drink. I want to smoke and scream and ignore my ever-persisting conscious. I want to fly, to never lay a toe on the ground again. Live on bohemia. Does it even exist anymore? I don’t suppose many people choose the modern bohemian life. A part of me wishes I could.

Fashion vs. Fields. Drugs vs. Dogs? Manic vs. Mellow. Capital vs. Country. Sticking it to the man vs. Serenity. What a completely odd mix of desires. I’ll be able to decide on those later, like I can talk about Henri Cartier-Bresson later. But one thing, if it is the only thing I confirm all week, is the fact that I never want to be the heartbreaker…ever again. I could wish away my conscious I guess, but what kind of a person would that truly make me? Better to deal with what you have done and become a better person than just be lost in the care-free wilderness of inhumanity. Seems a little drastic, but as faux-horrible as I do love to be, I do love. I hurt when others hurt, and if I’ve caused it? Well. Self-harm isn’t very impressive or respectable really.

You should really look up Henri Cartier-Bresson. He’s very talented.

A unique moment, just like everyone else's

To describe a moment may as well be to describe a lifetime. You can always remember everything about it – every thought, sensation, emotion. Often moments are as tangible as hot brick or iced water…they can create a shock which thrusts physical reaction forward, surpassing all logic and reason. To cry is a funny thing. To laugh is a strange thing. But to throw your head back and allow hope to explode out of your heart and soul seems the most obvious thing in the world. So why is it something that needs to be held back? Clutching at the fibres of your true laugh or biting back tears of any form just to preserve ones reputation seems bizarre, especially when you put it like that.

We like to guard ourselves. We flurry into any situation with the mutual knowledge that we don’t give a shit about anything that might be harmfully said, because we cant if we want to hold on to our dignity. Apparently. Is it a sign of weakness to show our true colours, to hold our palms out and say “yes, you hurt me” or “yes, I love you” or even “I can’t stand you.” It’s been too long. Many before us have taught us how to be ourselves, just like everyone else in this seemingly plummeting society.

So we fall. There’s another moment. When your stomach inflames to something that isn’t quite human, which doesn’t feel quite natural, it’s just wrong in the sense of something right that hasn’t gone to plan. Why is it so horrifying to admit that you literally want to die in the face of love? The pain of it all is not worth it, you just want to be still, as still as a pebble on a secret beach old as the hills you once cared about more than that.

It all used to matter so much. The sensation of bark upon skin, even when in angst was worthy of relish. The tangible sense of blades, gliding but wrenching under your weight in the wind…it all seems to disintegrate as you fall deeper into the pit. So suddenly it doesn’t seem as beautiful. It is as tainted as the sun during an eclipse. Ruined by something new, exciting and brilliant. We all eventually realize it’s nothing special, not really. Just something that swells and bursts in front of the light. Cover it up. Nobody here wants to hear all that.

It isn’t dramatic, it isn’t horrifying or happy, nothing epic, new or even vaguely exciting to them, but to you it might as well be the rolling stone of change to life, both exposing you and introducing you with kindly hands to all that is bright yet evil. They don’t teach you about that. All that is evil brings darkness, but I wasn’t warned it would be so subtle, so vicious, more so unintended. So there we go.

Long Grass

Somehow, the sun softens the constant bombardment of young pressure. Those rays you can see, reaching out of holes in the cloud, balancing between sky and earth on fingertips. But ghosts make no fingerprints. In the same way one can smell the way warm brick feels on your skin, you can feel the perfect light, relieving any darkness of its post. Remember the way it would flood the side of your face, and you would relish the pain when you looked her in the eye.

I lay in the long grass by the river that conquered me once, hiding me from prying eyes. The birdsong cleaned my heart and I watched messages in the sky. Swirling white water creating faces and beasts, signs and nonsense. In the city you never take the time to look up and listen. I feel myself fading, failing to darkness, heeding the white lies of people and places and I know I need to run. Would it help if I tried to let it pass me by? My talent I guess is to appear to do nothing, when really I am contemplating everything that you, judge, are. Fickle heart and glazed eyes, I struggle to find truth in your lies. How can I trust the grey concrete when it’s purpose is to sell?

Awake my soul with birdsong, lend me your mind and you will see the world how I see it. We will run together over land, dodging fingertips and laughing for the open skies. Let’s run.