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Lost Notes of My Book


Keep it short for pithy sake.

Many pages make a thick book.

Today is the last day of your life so far.

Today is the first day of the rest of the mess.


[And so the series begins. A few weeks without a connection has left me with a desktop full of notes; jots, narratives, quotes and single words of power. Before I disappear, I'll have these cleared. Randomness to follow, be advised.]

"You learn to write as if to someone else because next year you will be 'someone else.'"

"A few hours grace before the madness begins again."

Vaihteeksi näin. Omistuksen päivälle lasini nostan.

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.

--