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How are things supposed to be?


The vision of the dynamic:
The past flows to the present
The present is a fever of two directions, one on the path backwards and the other onward.
The potential dictates the future

Potential is the framework for destiny,
Everything left undone is something lost

"There could be so much more than this."


The vision of the trapper:
"Where'd one have to come from to pass here?"
He always knows the game.


The vision of the world:
It's one, meant to be.
One to find, one to play out.
The whole scene is a continuum.

Two lost, finding is the game.

"Ha, how 'bout that?" It mocks.

"I know this mountain.
Every crack, every seam.


No muscle, no spine.

A lifeless thing.
But once alive.

I touch it,
and I know.


I feel so much more of it now.



Touch the mountain's heart...

Yes.

See me make it beat.

So beautiful."


Published under Creative Commons (by-nc-sa)
Erfworld by Rob Balder & Jamie Naguchi

~

My search for eloquence.

~

Whisper where the walls were.

Talk to me,
speak my tongue,
you see me.

Converse with the scaled walls,
for they know their prisoner.

The moment stands still,
yet time flows.

The lightless cell was always better than this cage of glass.

What is beauty,

The ballet of pieces,
fragments,
once spread violently,
accidentally,
across the porcelain.

Chaotic action with a script.



A sage once said:
"What remains of us are fractions of a whole."


The harmony of being imperfect,
heaped of gravel and dust.

What defines,
anchors into the past.


Spill!
Reanimate.
Shed!


"But finally, one day, live the today."


I dreamt a day,
when the candle only shines light,
and objects refused to throw shadows.

That day,
assembly didn't demand it's subject to be broken,
For it no longer held meaning.

Nor did this world call for the assembler.
Finally dismissed, finally at peace.

That day,
everything came to,
and beauty was found;
not in perfection.

The harmony of all things broken.

And definition was no longer an imperative.

The mould voluntary.

Watching.

Ambience, you make no sound.

The planes shatter.

--

Context. The flower in the middle of a municipal flower bed does not exist. A single flower in the middle of the desert does.

A sprout from a highway crack is, a select from fertile soil is not.

Photography - picturing the world as is isn't.

--

~

Linens for skies.

~


There's no space without boundaries, that which encloses defines by exclusion.

Why can there not be that which is not mentioned to exist or not so?

The freedom to - not of - being.


~


No darkness without light, and visa versa. Why is the single ray in a dark room still light, and the shadow in daylight still darkness?

Contrast. The more disproportionate you go, the more something seems to prove its own existence.
A half-lit room is no scene of show. The candle in the middle of a dark hall somehow is.


~


Mark. Me, you, make one.

Highway Skyline

~


Of the grass, that choked
Of the roots, that were were uncovered

Of the steel, that impaled the soil
Of the concrete, that became the new skin of the land

Of the people, lost for lust, flame burnt
Of the will - that of steel - to have swung the first shovel

No more.

Of that what died, of that what was to live on
Of the desperation that engulfed us
Of the craze that drove us
Of them

Of us.

Ultimately alone.

~

Tower

Rise against the dead purple sky.
Entrapped.

There's no snow on your roofs,
no gravel on your roots.

Pylon above the rest,
the simple supremacy of height.

~

Each alone, look rigid!

~

Survive the suspensions of weathering,
ye old Polish beast!

There's a centre to it all,
and that's you.

Raised out of despair,
the middle of nowhere
pinpoint yourself
oversee
withhold
control.

Your minors will meet their maker.
Strange times, here they come.