Saturday, 14 July 2012

when the dust settles......

when the dust settles, everything stays the same, or not entirely

what is the story I want to tell you?
what is the story you would like to hear?
where do we meet in the middle of these two desires?

imagine two people meeting each other on a road, each one travelling alone. the sudden appearance of the other unsettles and heartens at the same time.
what are the first words they say to each other?
why is speech so removed from written language, why do we speak words so carelessly?
worn out clichés and the gentle loss of words.

i never wrote about it before (art and what it means to me). it might become the biggest cliché ever.
like a huge balloon that fills an entire room, o please, will someone please pop it?
stupid inflated ideas about worth.

that this pause lasts a whole lifetime, in parallel, absolute parallel to the life that travels, ticks, grows in the wrinkle on my hand.
void. and blooming crescences
the chatter fades. the slight blips and crackles. ruffles of dust pass by
doors open
doors close
is this the story you wanted to hear?
try again.

imagine two people meet at a busy bus stop, on a busy day, in a busy city, each one travelling alone, together. the bus doors hiss closed. your conversation took me into the following week.

so, I stand, eyes open, ears open. I don’t speak for a week. I don’t sit down for a week. my back grows strong (I’m walking).
my thoughts amass, form a multitude and then disperse politely.
in every situation the small things have power.

we now look to you, storyteller, to be our guide. the reversal of centuries.
the shoes are shod.
the stamps inked.

what about the letter sent but not received?
what thing was missed?
there was a picture in his wallet of a woman he met during the war but never saw again.
then fifty years later he saw her, he took no action.
completely stilled by the realisation of her presence,

but you want to hear some other topic don’t you?
how the horizon starts from the ground up
how meaning evades and permeates every possible surface and how all our ideas are corruptible.

to be more hopeful
I like mystery, I’ll confess.

dinda fass 3 June 2012