I reap the gathering whirlwind...

Clear blue skies above, but I reap the gathering whirlwind on the shores of a blue ocean, and I quickly learn the name of each grain of sand as together we are whipped up captive in Stockholm by the invisible walls of a tachophrenic eddy; and only the stars above us know the extent of their influence.

I am unconcious and in my dreams I have my tounge between the teeth of a shrouded and skeletal figure as I hear the subtle rasp of a distal phalanx against a crescent blade held half an inch from the nape. I will fuck and then leave a note in the morning. "You looked so peaceful". Until one day I sleep in late.

I am day and night. I am yin and yang, black and white and this is the way I have always been. I don't make choices - I wait for the seasons to bring fruit. And when summer comes, I grow fat while others pickle and cure. And I am sliding into winter, now.

Always looking to the clear blue sky, always focused on infinity. But I am biting into the fruit of life as a crescent blade bites into my neck, and now the sand is biting into my eyes and I want to close them. But I look up. But I can't tell dreams from reality.

Everyday language is metaphysics...

I was drinking beer at a quiet, pleasant but slightly overlit bar with my good friend from work. I don't normally smoke, unless I am drinking, and so I didn't have any cigarettes on me. I was drinking and so I wanted to smoke. I had to get some cigarettes from the convenience store, and so I had to notify my friend that I was going away but I would be back very shortly. I was slightly embarrassed that I was about to smoke and so I didn't want to tell him explicitly where I was going or what I was doing. So this is what I chose to do:

1. I took the very essence of my being, and I transmuted it so that it became the subjective experience of my friend.

2. I manipulated the fullness of his experience so that it recognised myself as a delimited partition within the totality of his own perception of his being.

3. I defined that partition as an experience of my own physical and inter-relational absence from his immediate sensory perception.

4. To recap: The essence of my being was now the experience of my own absence within his perception of of his immediate environment. But only in my own perception of his future experience of which he was unaware.

5. I summoned the very fabric of everything to my disposal, and applied a mechanical construct of human ingenuity to it. In this way, I was able to rip 'time' away from 'space', and subsume it into collective human experience. I could now use a similar mechanical human construct to divide time into definite subdivisions.

6. I could now use a linguistic construct, which was actually the benefactor of the ability to create the mechanical constructs described above, to blur the edges of those mechanical definitions and infer an indefinite concept of smallness and apply it to his subjective perception of time.

7. I used our shared understanding of phonemic sounds to once again separate our selves and redraw boundaries between our perceptions of self, and at the same time convey our fabricated interpersonal relationship in terms of space, time and separateness. And I said:

"I'll be two minutes".

The Bomb as the Brake of Karma...

I was young when the world ended. My family was a blood red rose thirsting for life in the broken concrete jungle of an urban warzone, tangled up in a mass of seething vines and brambles in a dark corner of a broken city that time had long forgotten. An untouchable corner of the city, unvisited, and we were never seen by the beautiful eyes of those glimmering diamonds who knew everything of our plight but nothing of our lives. Those beautiful glittering diamonds dancing their way to heaven with numbers on their backs, every move subject to the watchful gaze of a pantheon of judges, every step well placed onto the heart of another while the applause deafened them all and made them dizzy and drunk so that they thought of nothing but the music and the moves that they had learned from watching each other.

And when the dancing got so furious that bombs began to fall, the petals of my family burned to nothing, and the winds that came blew our ashes this way and that, along with the vines and the brambles and the concrete and the diamonds whose long evolution had been undone in a flash and who were now nothing but simple carbon once again. And we all looked the same. And nothing moved.

So where does my soul go to now? Our perennial seed remains but there is no earth in which to take root. We used to come back. We used to come back to the promise of growth and of dreams. We used to go back. But now there is nowhere to go.

The Light of the New Day...

The birdsong breathes the morning air and the sunlight breaks a new dawn. I am between tonight and today. With all the resounding silence, with all the quiet of this wakening life, I am the optimism that sends the tomcat prancing past my window and sees the blue jay skip across the wire, looking for the warmth of the earth to bring in my day. And when those who slept awake they won't know this moment, because they are the dreamers and I am the dream; the witness of all things beginning. The spiral of time approaches a larger circle. Let me be here until I am gone. Let me be here until I become the earth that springs forth new life; the night that lives on in the light of the new day.

The Spider Plant...

A spider plant sits on a bay windowsill in a quiet, off-street neighbourhood in West London. It gently sucks moisture from its little pot of earth, softly exhaling oxygen and quietly making sugar. It has little to worry about.

On the other side of the bay, a thirty-two year old man sits cross-legged in the natural darkness of an early Autumn Friday night, slowly lifting a glass of red wine to his lips. The smoke from his cigarette is drawn lazily through the open window by a warm and gentle breeze. Quiet music plays. Beat-driven but measured, gentle and thoughtful. A girl gets up from her place at the dining table and walks into the kitchen to refill her glass. The bottle rests beside him.

Two white, oval plates rest on the dining table. Three garden peas lay in a residual quantity of jus on his, and on hers a tender strip of fat from a rib-eye. Two candles flicker and their dancing flames are reflected in the glass tabletop, under which a teenage cat purrs as it sleeps.

Laughter from the neighbours and their guests drift into the room, lightly mixed with the scent of woodsmoke and flame-grilled meat. And as this sound, this smell, the taste of the wine on his lips, the flickering candles in the half light, the warmth of the room and the night air become his world in all the fullness of his experience, he rests the wine glass on his thigh, closes his eyes, smiles, and gently rests his head against the wall behind him.

The girl emerges from the kitchen, holding an unopened wine bottle. She approaches him in her own time, her eyes carefully scanning the room. Opening his eyes once more, he rolls his head to face her and watches as she moves toward him and finally comes to rest an inch from his knee. He takes the bottle of wine from her hand, rests it on the windowsill, and replaces it with is own hand, slipping his fingers through hers. He takes the open bottle from beside him and she accepts it with her left.

The spider plant sits with them, slowly sucking moisture from its little pot of earth, softly exhaling oxygen and quietly making sugar.

Giving...

A young couple are walking arm in arm on a glorious and lazy summer afternoon. As he speaks, he turns his head slightly to catch her reaction. She laughs and presses her cheek against his shoulder. She tilts her head up to meet his smile. Their eyes and not their necks do most of the work.

The sign above the cafe behind them reads "Pastais de Belem".

They are both in their late twenties, he stands at a proud six foot and two inches tall, well set, sensibly muscular with iconically Italian-American features and a deep brown and passionate gaze. She is slender, unreasonably attractive, Dutch with impecable English. They are the perfect couple, madly in love and the whole world madly in love with them. Beneath their perfect skin, of course, they are made of messy and falable biological material: blood and bone and sweat and shit. Hungry minds feed their greedy bellies.

As they walk past the entrance to the Pastais de Balem, an elderly woman leaves, stopping in the doorway for a second as she fastens the clasp of her purse. The opening door draws an aromatic flood of pastel de nata onto the street. Her feet stop walking and he is suprised, caught off guard, his body forced around by momentum, the falcrum of their linked arms and certain amount of curiosity. He faces her. His attention quickly pulls her into focus, but she does not meet him. Her gaze is fixed on a place and a time that no longer exist. She breaths deeply.

Another man, beautiful in his own way, once brought her to this place. He was much more in love with her than she ever was with him, but his love and his radiance led her to deny this for a long time. The same things led him to ignore it. Back when she was a small bundle of nervous smiles and unpublished photographs, barely out of her teens, he had called in favours and established new ones, pulled hours out of nowhere to bring her success into his own. His belief in her, and his hard work, had created this world that she now lived in. This confident smile, this dream of a life, this perfect honeymoon.

And when his drunken one-night-stand with a collegue at a christmas party had finally given her the excuse to finally feel what she had always felt, she had cried herself to sleep on his chest for twenty-seven nights before packing her bags. He had remained more or less motionless, emotionless for the whole period, stroking her hair and staring at the ceiling.

The Dutch girl's neck does all of the work as it lifts her eyes to meet the intrigue of the Italian-American man. She tells him that she loves him, and as she leads them into walking on, she momentarilly glances at the pastel de nata in the window, before fixing her eyes firmly on the horizon that faces them now.

Memory...

She bends down to pick her clothes off the floor of a cheap motel room in the city's downtown area. With a hurried sense of purpose and an aimless sense of direction, she covers the distance from item to item. Cross-legged from the bed, inward facing, his attention is caught by the sudden appearance of her reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall, and he can see 360 degrees around a body that once had no concept of it's own nakedness but which subsequently learned to both fear and celebrate itself. Guiltily, he steals one last glance at that nakedness and his pupils dilate as his brain tries to imprint on itself every ray of light that bounces from her, so that it can keep their intimacy forever. This is the last thing he will ever take from her.

She catches his reflection in the mirror and she pushes a hard stare into his eyes for a fraction of a second before dropping her jeans on the floor and pulling her t-shirt over her head. She picks up the jeans and pulls them on, turning around to face him as she purposefully and mercilessly buttons the fly. She pushes the end of her belt through the buckle and pulls it tight. The muscles in her left forearm are taught as she pushes the prong into one of the fastening holes, and finally she pushes the loose end through the belt loop of her jeans, like she's securing the end of a good hitch. She fixes his gaze with shark-like eyes. That moment that he had tried to keep forever will leave here with her. It will walk out of the room and leave nothing but the empty haze of a memory. It will not keep him warm, it will not make him laugh and it will not want him or need him or love him or fuck him. And this is the last thing she will ever take from him.

Why am I here?

An appreciation of all life requires an abandonment of self. He needs second sight. Social life is a parade of friends and enemies, however loose those terms might be used - at the very least it is a wash or a spectrum of engagement and disengagement. Sometimes we are drawn into a dance, a flow of collective thoughts, ideas, laughter and gibberish. Dancers are always judged collectively. Other times we stand alone with others, animals sniffing each other and nothing flows. The id is a stagnant pool, the ego is trapped in a shell of mismatched language and ideas. Animals are always judged individually.

The abandonment of self requires an appreciation of all life. Our thoughts are more or less scheduled by the meanderings of our lives. We make plans and dream up dreams and solutions according to our situations and beliefs. Ideas outside of those realms seem unimportant. The thoughts about the self become the perception of self, and we become unable to live outside of those thoughts. Let our prescriptions go, and our heads are flooded with the thoughts and the lives of others. Because the mind has to have thoughts. From somewhere. From anywhere.

Maybe sex and meaning are separate. Maybe they only meet occasionally. Maybe the temporal biological imperative is seperate from the atemporal sensation of being that is our sense of self and spirit. Maybe that which is billed as the entwining of souls is, in fact, just the satisfaction of three billion years of chemical inclination. Maybe the soul is only a fraction of our existance.

He doesn't want it to be.

He sits on the couch of a stranger from a New York night club. She is fixing drinks and fixing herself. They danced a lot and talked very little. He sits there, eyes staring blankly at the floor, shifting left to right. Questions from his past, questions from his future, questions from the couch... what will he say when she comes back in? How will he ignite the sparks of passion and connection that will lead them upstairs? The taxi ride was virtually silent.

She comes back into the room, her hands full of drinks, her face full of nervous smiles, her body full of tension.

"Why am I here?" he asks.

The Commet...

The searching dusk of the television superimposes itself over the darkness of the room. Shadows dance with the flickering images, with the camera-changes and cutaways. Live footage from outer space plunges everything into a still blackness. Only the commet moves. Back to the studio; and for a moment the dancing shadows are stunned and frozen by the the gravity of the situation.

His face is sick and luminescent. Its contours traced by contrast. Black and white and motionless. Expressionless. Dead already. His eyes reflect the depth of space and the vast coldness of reality. The insentience of God. Only in some insignificant corner of his soul is it possible to glimpse the passion of a human Christ who lived and loved and cried and fucked. Some tiny flame in his eyes burns like our sun in a cold and infinite eternity. Our sun, which gave us life and in which he once glimpsed the perfect beauty of that life, bathing in its accidental warmth. So far and yet so near.

In the vastness of space, the commet slowly hurtles toward the earth. In the vastness of his soul, his fire slowly consumes everything. Maria, Mum, Dad, David, Hae Bin... They are everthing. They are bigger than everything. Life is bigger than the universe. Life is bigger than reality.

His eyes flicker.

A cutaway to the commet.

He is alone in the darkness.

Mirror shades...

I doubt that you've ever seen any man that you would deem as more attractive than he is. As she talks to him, she notices herself playing with her hair in the reflection of his mirrored sunglasses. She blushes slightly and rests both of her arms on her lap. Almost indestinguishably, her eyes constantly shift focus as she alternately moves her attention from his face to her own body language. Subconciously, her manner becomes more flirtatious as she begins to question her own attractiveness.

His mind and his blood burn hot...

It starts to rain. At 6pm in the winter it is already dark and often bitterly cold. There's a guy in Marks & Spencer's doorway, greasy and huddled in a mess of blankets. They all see him there every day. He asks them for money. Some of them oblige, most of them ignore him. Some tell him that they are sorry. His mind and his blood burn hotter with every hour that passes until he can make up the money to earn a 75cl bottle from the off-licence over the road.

It's Friday night. Around the corner there's a bar that is famed for it's atmosphere. Lively, friendly, fun. A good glass of whatever it is that you like. City traders, weekend ravers, office workers, construction workers - everyone drinks there, but social boundaries are only broken when sex is involved. A man breaks away from his friends to buy a £150 bottle of champagne for a woman who has been drinking Bacardi Breezers. She is impressed with his money and his dynamism, he is impressed at her looks and her openness. He will take her home, and then they will never speak again.

On La Ramblas, a mixed group of EasyJet revellers grate the peace of evening with innane chanting and obnoxious shouting. A young Spanish couple walks past them. The boy feels nervous, the girl feels disgust. Chanting and shouting, they trample Barcelona.

Four middle-class Guardian reading couples sit eating lobster in an expansive suburban home. Greg opens a 1990 Château Latour, the conversation turns from knife-crime to Dutch care-homes. Everyone has somthing to say. Some of them learn something, others refuse to be wrong. Greg comes on to Alun's wife in the kitchen. She refuses him and in the morning he laughs about it, privately. It was a good evening.

A twelve year old boy smokes a cigarette and waits outside an off-licence for some eighteen year old passer-by to come out carrying eight cans of Stella Artois.

Saturday afternoons are made out of pasta...

They sit and drink wine in a modest little Italian place set back from the waterfront. This is a place where life comes to while away the hours, relaxing in its own company and bathing in its own warmth; heedless of itself. This is a place where Saturday afternoons are made out of pasta and where great deeds are made out of words. The sun shines lazily upon the streets and through its windows.

Burning through the ocean of forever...

Deep, deep blue. The unfathomable ocean of a complex and troubled genius. A colour torn through and a fire bursting out to consume eternity with its brilliance. Fire-red consuming everything. Objects move as crackling embers; white-hot architecture aglow, bathed in flame.

The horizon is on fire. The sky is a revelation.

He leans back against the station wall, smoking and staring into the divine. Flash-point. God engulfs his very being, evaporating every tedious problem, laying waste to every minutae of pity and sorrow. There is only now; and now the inferno of life burns in his soul.

There are moments in life that lift the burden of truth. Human truth, so fanciful and full of itself. Human truth, so vainly narrating God's infinite complexity. Defiling experience with its story. Defiling life with its language. He feels as lost as a poet.

Clarity is found in the absence of clarity. The deep blue ocean of life is alight with the fire of existance.

And existance is his only certainty.

The Dancer

He is a dancer and he dances to his own tune. He moves rhythmically, sometimes mournful and often aggressive, in expression of the beatings of his heart and the colours of his mood. And as he twirls and leaps, his limbs move the air and rouse great storms. His footsteps cause great earthquakes and his sweat falls as torrential downpour. And all this weather bears down and demolishes the landscape of a world that exists only in the heart of a young woman who doesn't know what to do.

Smoke, Dissipating...

He lays on top of his bed, lost in some dream. He brings his cigarette to his lips and the tip blossoms and crackles in the silent darkness. As his hand drifts back to rest on his stomach, the smoke slips thoughtfully from his mouth.

Melancholy is a sadness that slowly embraces the beautiful indifference of the universe; that moves in dense swirls from its point of origin, then slowly rises and hangs in the air before dissipating into nothingness.

He cannot afford a wedding. He cannot afford a bride. He cannot afford to buy the dress that will breathe life into the dreams of a young girl before they dissipate into the disappointment of adulthood. He cannot afford to mend his broken shoes.

His fiance lays next to him, naked, surrendered, her head resting on his shoulder, lost in some dream...

Small Descriptions...

He wants to make stories that swell and burst hearts. The bonfire storyteller who creates worlds for his flames to illuminate. Through the darkness of his mysteries, his passion licks their minds. Wide eyed, open mouthed, they listen. Hours pass timelessly.

He wants to pour words on a page, he wants to bring the reader to his fire; the tree-stump seats, warmth and light peeking shallow into the darkness. Words on a page, hanging in the air.

He has a lot to learn. An amateur witch, he doesn't know his craft. He decides to begin by making small descriptions...