In a window less cell.
Where the phone never rings.
No visitors here.
Hold myself dear.
The wind bleats as lamb.
Only sound heard, rattling air-brick.
Still cold inside.
Sits waiting for endurance to call.
She doesn't need it.
He's just a prick.
He doesn't call.
Once he did.
She said she'd visit.
Only because she's bored.
What is it that makes her hide inside.
Hide inside her heart that died.
Static she waits in her virtual box.
Watching the seconds dance over the clock.
Knowing all that he wants is a game with his cock.
Stuck In a vortex between love and hate.
Certainly not feeling great.
The height from where she fell was lowly.
He truly is not holy.
He lives where terra firma strokes the belly of the worm.
The worm wants her to stroke him.
Will F**k him but only with words!
She will not go.
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
[Hint - it's fun to read this one out loud :) ]
Upon a crusty and spinning crag
Herbert's trusty craft did set,
Out beyond the path of Mars
In an asteroid belt they met.
Picked from out of thousands there
He selected a rocky home,
The perfect kind of rocky mass
To end his spacely roam.
First Ceres was too large and bold
And Pallas was too pale,
Old Vesta flew with sluggish wings
And Hygiea seemed too frail..
Ah, Sylvia seemed a likely rock
And her orbit seemed fine too,
But t'was Juno caught his eye at last
So what else could he do?
He sat his craft upon that rock
And loosed his robot throng,
Soon they mined and smelted ore
And built a structure strong.
That dome rose up with welded struts
To stand on a bright-lit plain,
The jewel-like panes filled out the place
O'er that kingdom he would reign.
Industrious 'bots and a stately home
So there did Herbert rule,
O'er a stark and rocky, lonely view
In the asteroid belt so cruel.
T'was far away to the nearest soul
No one to share Herb's tea,
To simply chat or share a bite
How lovely would that be?
Deep beneath old Juno's crust
'Bots mined for all their worth
Pulling out rare stuff and gems
And sending them to Earth.
But all the gold and diamond stones
Could hardly even start,
To fill the void that Herbert felt
Where he knew he kept a heart.
Yet, several rocky asteroids out
Across that rocky belt,
Another set upon her task
With ores and slag to melt.
Past Callisto and Iris zones
Where Cybele and Psyche spin
Fair Susanna tended Hektor's mines
Of silver, zinc and tin.
Now orbits often twist and dance
And trade with one another,
Where one boulder once was kin
There soon will be some other.
T'was thus that Herbert's Juno rock
Slowly made it's way,
To catch-up Susie's Hektor world
And shadow it one day.
Sue looked out her glass abode
To see what blocked the sun,
Then seeing Juno with its mines
A visit seemed like fun.
Toward a spot near Herbert's ship
Suzanna's came a-falling,
Imagine Herbert's bright surprise
Seeing visitors a-calling.
A shapely suit with bubble head
And jet-pack soon came floating,
To Herbert's door that afternoon
The sight had him emoting.
"Well hello there friend, and who are you
That to my rock comes knocking?"
"Just another miner fool
Whose sun your Juno's blocking"
"In just a little while, I'm sure
Our asteroids will part,
So why not stay a little while
And a friendship we can start?"
Double shipments soon they made
To send away to Earth
While their robots toiled each day
The sweethearts shared their mirth.
Great love did our Herb and Susie share
Built on those pleasant talks
And soon a tractor beam they fixed
Between their drifting rocks.
And still today in spacers' lore
They talk about that tether,
That linked two hearts among the rocks
Two asteroids bound together.
This describes all of the cottage industry angels that men produce they are angels for profit
Pure angels Zechariah 1:8 “I saw by night and behold a man riding on a red horse and it stood
Among the myrtle trees in the hallow and behind him were horses red, sorrel, and white then I
Said my lord what are these so the angel who talked with me said to me I will show you what
They are” what they are is the most pleasurable and pure knowing of angels they are in God’s
Word doing the work of God we don’t discredit angels in books but here you can have a sigh of
Relief knowing assuredly their wings is not noise filled from rust or any manner of impurity
Join them in complete utter trust they haven’t been set before you for any ulterior motive of
Anyone the song blessed assurance doesn’t come from this but how glorious here the door is
Wide open come in and dwell among sacred doings in the earth feel alone weak sad come to
This clearing that appears profound all powerful truly you can mount up on angel wings soar
The True dimensions of the soul unbound in delirious thrilled freedom ride on thermals created
By visitors who call heaven home you will be touched by reality unknown to human thought
Truly the rush of angel’s will surround you live in a beleaguered world of fallen angels that only
Seek our hurt but in this rarified place where heavenly glory is readily displayed you will know
Peace comfort and power adrift you are bestowed with garlands now temporarily but one day
It will be replaced with a golden sacred crown on your head His gleaming light will shoot out in
All directions accompanied by your joyous laughter these are truths and thoughts that will
Enrobe you enthrall you the sweetest tremble the softest tenderness will beguile you where
You will abide among true friends and protectors that serve God honorable just a few true
Words that will truly uplift you what is being described is your birthright your treasure without
Measure it’s not written in stone but in Holy love that consumes heaven’s thoughts you are the
Central most desirable discussion that heaven ever has this is just one mention of that truth
Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings,
The drug that sings an Angel's lullaby, tosses you into the toy box like another rag-doll.
We've fallen for it again. The dusty dolls and
Hollow plastic telephones that hold spider eggs are the only companions now.
But I am here. And I am your friend.
Although I can not make any promises that I am beautiful, I will be as pretty as I can;
I will wear dresses and makeup.
My scars are not covered, they show and glow like luminescent tattoos etched into my skin.
Do you have any ink? Did your feather pen spill over the page, erasing your work?
Did the charcoal reflection fuck you over and stain your perfect self?
Of course it did. That is what happens when the desk you write on is slanted, demented,
But it seems to be your twin.
Your mind is not a place of blazing meteors, honey. It's a place of evil things.
You are a twisted little bitch, but so am I, you see. We have both taken the wrong path,
The only difference: I know how to survive. How to fool the monsters under the bed into thinking
I am one of them. In a way, I might even be telling the truth. I painted my own mask:
A splash of black here, a drop of blood there, and... Something is missing, but they won't notice.
They will always let me dance with them around their moonlit blue flames; I am their queen,
My mask, to them is beautiful. And they understand the me that I have fabricated to escape
The wretched toy box on the other side of the bedroom, over the mountains of dirty socks and
Dusty snow globes, even if a part of me is not complete.
I am still stuck in that box long after the room rotted away, the box melted in the
Sunlight and every speck of dust swept away by the wind and rain.
But at least more of the black poppies can grow.
Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings, leaving everyone who slips the glass pill
Comatose in a hospital bed, tubes shoved down their throat to keep from asphyxiating.
No matter how many visitors come to read stories and play songs on the ukulele,
They will remain dormant. They are not longer home, so stop ringing the bell.
No, I take that back.
Ring the death bell one more time, invite everyone to the land of green grass and marble sculptures;
Tell them to bring poppies because it was the deceased's favorite flora,
But neglect to say which color. The visitors bring red,
An alien on the color spectrum and unrecognized by the ghost atop the gravestone.
Still, the dull color matches the spatter of blood on the mask I once wore, and I am brought back
A hologram, of sorts. The bowed heads below me are too dense to look up, except for one.
It's you, love. You grew the flowers that put me there.
The dull color that hypnotized me night after night and made me dream of your body
Covered in the withered petals. You, love. My poppy dealer.
There once was a man whose last name was the name of an animal
and the animal was a symbol of everything the man believed in
and it just so happened that the animal was also a symbol of
many a man's beliefs
and so it was that the man worked very hard
and became very wealthy so that in his great success
he wanted everyone to know his name
and see it on display
so he commissioned a statue by the finest sculptor in the world
to create a huge sculpture of a particular animal
that had the same name as his last name
a sculpture of crystal with many facets
for which he paid dearly
and when he put it on display in the foyer of his beautiful mansion
where everyone could see it
they loved it
and in so loving the sculpture they were loving the man
and all those that saw the sculpture were bent to covet the sculpture
and wished to be successful like the man who had commissioned it
so they came in droves to see it
and left with fantasies of their own
about creating art resembling their names
but mostly their names were too normal
like Smith or Jones or Sarsaparilla
(and although Sarsaparilla isn't normal
it hardly deserves a sculpture)
then one day an unspeakable horror
put an end to the covetous visitors
you see it was on that day everything changed
when his children were playing in the foyer
running and laughing like children do
they were happy children
happy because they had it all
and never wanted for anything
when one boy pushed the other and
the sculpture came crashing down upon the smallest boy
sitting on his trike
and crushed the boy to death
and the great man with the name of the important animal
and cursed the day
that he had wished for more
and had so foolishly believed that more was the answer
because now if he could
he would give it all back
if only he could hold the boy one more time
his tiny son crushed by the commissioned crystal sculpture of the animal
resembling his name that was accidentally knocked over by those who
had everything and wanted for nothing because their father had worked
so hard in order for them to have it all
but worse than all of that
and worse than anything else
was that his great name once a symbol of freedom and strength
would forevermore be a symbol of pain and sorrow
and there's nothing worse than having everything you believe in
thrown upside down in the form of ultimate mockery
the realization that the pain will never go away
or be forgotten
a pain that is forever
a nail driven through his heart every time he signs his name
Signed _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
John M Eagle
THE BLACK FAUX ALLIGATOR LEATHER briefcase was accidently left behind in the taxicab which James Riley was riding in. A junior Professor at a prestigious New York college. Luckily for him he held on to the receipt the cab driver handed him and with a little intuitive work, he was able to retrieve his briefcase in a matter of a few hours. He met the same cab driver who had dropped him off earlier that evening in front of his apartment building and shamefully begged the driver to take the few extra cash, he wanted to thank him with for returning back to the scene of the "crime," if you think of it in that sense. The driver however was not swayed at first but reluctantly drove away with the extra cash in his pockets. He briefly stood standing there in relief. For not only getting his briefcase returned back to him undamaged, but that more importantly all its contains were still intact and equally the students papers were yet to be graded.
"What a careless fool I am," he said. "No more after work happy hour for me!" he declared. James bid the streets a goodnight and headed back inside to the comforts of his apartment. Once there he was feverishly texting away on his cellphone with a pal he had recently met at a local coffee shop near the school where he teaches. I could only assume that he is informing his pal Carlos Saldana about the events that had occurred with his briefcase and while patiently waiting on his takeout dinner to be delivered. He places the cellphone down on the open files laid out on top of the coffee table, walks over to the fridge for a bottled water and on his return back to his seating area, the intercom buzzer comes alive for a brief moment. James's dinner has finally arrived.
I know myself and at times I believe that I am a superhero and can manage a full works schedule, friendships and that of being a semi partying young working professional. I just as well don't find much joy in the latter: romance. It's a complicated order I'd say. But by all accounts he manages to carve out a decent amount of romantic dates by years end. He does really enjoys the life of a bachelor's lifestyle and the no strings attached policy. Let me state that by no means is the clean cut grayish-blue eyed tall handsome James Riley a mere promiscuous gigolo. He readily engages to reunite with the company of others for leisure or an occasional sexual hookup. James in this regard prefers to meet up with an online randevu at a midtown hotel for the sake of his privacy and sanity. One should never be as foolish and carefree with one's own secrets, he once thought.
He is no fool by any means and woke up the following morning to a blurred October autumn crisp sky. He quickly checked his mobile device for any overnight signs of life from the outside world (which there were a missed call and 4 text messages) and to see the time. Before joining his head with his pillow, he had placed his cellphone on silent mode. Therefore, giving him a well-rested nights sleep and blocking out any unrested souls from seeping in into the night. He reached over to the nightstand, fumbled with the cable television remote control and clicked onto a news network channel, where he then realized that Margaret Thatcher was dead, the former British prime minister.
"I see that old B.P.M. has passed on today," James texted.
"Oh yes, I heard" replied Carlos. They always seemed to know what the other was talking about, like an unhidden code between them. "I bide her a farewell." He concluded.
"Brunch in 20 minutes?" asked James.
"Yes. I'll meet you there," Carlos had replied.
"Butter" James texted.
"Yes, I gotcha" Carlos responded back.
Butter is an Italian eatery restaurant nestled in the Greenwich village neighborhood that they both enjoyed very much. Salvatore Bellino, the owner is like a papa figure to all his patrons and treated anyone who walked through the doors like family. The average build of James's body frame carried no weight to the amount of food he can consume in one sitting. Carlos looked on in awe and amazement. This guy can really devour all that up he thought. He had hastily scanned the menu and ordered two breakfast platters because the first one would not be as fulfilling as the second one, which consisted of a western omelette, hash browns, maple sausages, crispy bacon strips, pancakes topped with blueberries, strawberries and whipped cream. He then wolfed it down with a large glass of mimosa or two. Carlos simply enjoyed a plate of two egg whites, sautéed asparagus with strawberries and kiwi and a simple glass of orange juice.
"Wow! That was delicious," James happily proclaimed.
"I bet it was," Carlos said with a half smile.
After that marathon of a breakfast which mostly James endured, it was clear that they were both relaxed, fulfilled and slightly eager to move on with their day. It was Saturday and it was clearly evident that they really didn't have any solid plans. They just sat there sipping on ice water with lemon slices, waited for the check which they both split and chatted a bit about their respective work, life, wanting to go on vacations and a little tidbits of politics. Carlos Saldana made his living as a political writer and authored two books on the subject, one becoming a National Best Seller. He then landed himself a lucrative deal with a major political Internet magazine, has written many articles for newspapers and blog sites. He mainly works from his home office which he shares with his four year marriage to his wife Yvonne.
"And your wife how is she?" James asked, genuinely.
"Oh, she is good, I assume," Carlos answered. Yvonne's job kept her away from home a few months out the year. "You see, she's a senior representative for a large biotechnology company and she is barely at home," he quips.
"I- I see." James hesitantly replied. That last tidbit of information instantly lead him to believe that the young marriage is probably brewing with trouble. "Do you guys ever Skype?" he added.
"Yes, but its not the same as in person," Carlos reasoned.
Salvatore Bellino came over to their table to greet them, but he had taken an instant liking to James and would let him use a corner table as a brief work stationary, as long as the restaurant was not busy with eating patrons. James introduces his friend Carlos Saldana to Mr. Salvatore Bellino, who came to live in the United States as a young child with two older siblings and his parents from their motherland of Italy. He already had an uncle who owned a restaurant in The Bronx and he worked his way up from waiter, manager to semi-owner to finally becoming a restaurateur and owner of his own eatery Butter, which has afforded him a dulce lifestyle and in the same token, has bought him numerous food awards from the culinary world and featured articles in newspapers and glossy magazines. The exterior of the restaurant was once featured in a romantic comedy film.
Salvatore Bellino was accepted and attended a prestigious culinary school in France to become a chef. He then visited and studied even further under the watchful eye of his successful chef maternal grandmother in Italy and then later he gradually started stepping away from the kitchen to front of the house in his own restaurant, and often times he did both, while employing chefs equal to his standards. Salvatore's age could not be disrupted even though he lives and looks like a guy in his mid-thirties such as James and Carlos, but whose real age is in his early sixties.
"I am pleased to see you again bambino and to meet your friend," Salvatore said.
"Yes, thank you," James replied.
"The food was delicious and you have such a beautiful place here, Mr. Bellino," Carlos injected.
"Thank you. But call me Salvatore, as you are among friends bambino," Salvatore stated.
"I am honored," Carlos replied.
"He shall bring his young bride the next time he's in the neighborhood," James proclaimed.
"Oh wonderful, I would enjoy meeting her, yes!" Salvatore said.
"Yes. All in due course," Carlos said with a half smile.
Once outside the restaurant they noticed that the clouds had shifted to a somewhat darker vortex and the air a bit brisk as they hailed a cab. Carlos had earlier in the day sent James a text message advising him that if he had any free time, if he would be inclined to visiting the Picasso exhibition at the Guggenheim museum. He had unhesitantly obliged and off they went inside the taxicab they headed towards that direction. Carlos fiddled with his cellphone to send a quick text to his wife Yvonne. 'Just saying hi, hope you're great, brunch with James and now off to the museum.' James's attention lingered out the view of the cars window. He looked over to see that Carlos was tucking away his cellphone in the upper inside right side jacket pocket.
"You are very dutiful," James inquisitively said.
"Say what?" Carlos asked.
"Dutiful. I mean with your wife!" James cleared.
"No, I heard you. But I am just puzzled about why would you come to that conclusion?" Carlos asked.
"It's nothing bad. I just noticed your role as a dutiful husband to stay connected to one's wife," James carefully explained.
"I see. I am bound by the vows I took years ago," Carlos said in a more relaxed tone.
"I better understand now," James said.
The cab driver pulled up to the front of the world famous Guggenheim museum to the surprise of its back seat passengers. They both wore a daunted look on their faces and the driver was beginning to lose his patience, as they both just sat there in silence and the driver repeatedly saying that they had arrived at their destination and to pay up. Carlos Saldana a Puerto Rican born and bred New York native, with the looks that resembles a young leading Hollywood star from the golden age; dark hair, brown eyes and caramel skin. Who was the first to attend college in his household and go on to journalism school as he won himself a fellowship to attend.
"James, we're here, my friend!" Carlos wearily voiced, as he awoke from the unnatural spell.
"Yes, you're right!" James said, as he himself shook off the cloudiness of the spell.
As they both regained their composure while exiting the taxicab and paying their fare, one thing struck him to be a little odd. Carlos wondered at the scope of James's inquiry into his marriage? I can't believe to fantom the notion into why people would marry rather than to stay unmarried, James fought to understand, but please do forgive my ignorance. The car drove off behind them as they both stood there eyeing the massive work of art with its swirl dome structure. James had once before visited the museum to attend a black tie event which the museum had played host. But never in a personal capacity such as now. However, it had been a bridge in which Carlos had ventured too once to many times, but loved every minute of it every single time he visited, for both work or leisure. He often times boasted that it was his favorite museum to visit in the city.
Once inside the gallery of the white walled museum they lingered about taking in the views and then headed to the Picasso exhibition. The museum was quite light with visitors, a mere unusual for this time of year, on a Saturday afternoon or perhaps the threat of rain is what may have kept them away. However, it was an utmost exciting opportune time for Carlos to enjoy it without the burdensome interruption, which he disdained with a crowded house. It always felt to him as if having a bunch of roaming wolves everywhere and no time to soak it all in with the wolves taking away from the stillness and enjoyment of the experience.
Meanwhile, James was besieged and quite smitten with a painting depicting an old man in despair, along with a young boy by his side, which tugs at the human heart both visually and reflectively as well. You never know what you'll encounter until its right there in your face, like a spotlight shining from above. The painting gave off as he was feeling a haunting sorrowful cry for help and empathy.
Giorgio, the coal gray Persian cat, sat upright perfectly still on a white upholstered armless chair, purring away unobstructed and freely. He was recently acquired by James to be of comfort and company. The bright bubble blue-eyed cat squarely looked at its masters direction as he himself sat on a white sofa, eagerly reading an article which Carlos had written...
my mind is a planetarium
where each memory is a meteorite
and every apology burns like a dying star.
enclosed in the vast celestial stretch of my skull,
planets tend to vanish without the courtesy of a goodbye,
but i'm just happy to have housed them for a little while.
my projector is faulty and sometimes,
the images i try to convey become obscured
("asteroids may be larger than they appear").
i can't help but speak in broken constellations,
and hope that you somehow understand
that i have nothing but the best intentions.
not to mention, i've seen a lot of visitors, though
none have ever stayed for long, after they've surveyed
that i'm nothing more than a bunch of chaotic galaxies.
i rubbed the collection of stardust and debris from my eyes
and to my surprise, found that you hadn't gone anywhere.
instead, you were there, floating through my solar systems.
you've got me orbiting around your finger
like the rings around the sixth planet from the sun.
i come undone a little more with every word you breathe.
my bones are made of moon rock, aching like cold craters,
waiting patiently for the radiant warmth of the sun,
or your breath, or your touch, whichever is closest.
the most stellar display of stars i have ever seen
are not in the belt of orion, nor anywhere within the milky way -
instead they are lightyears beyond, resting comfortably behind your lips.
Your stroke feels like a fictional narrative
Maybe it's because I just watched that movie you were in
My friend only gave it one star on Netflix
The walk from my apartment to work
Doesn't give me much time to involve myself in the whole wide world
And Mollie says you aren't really up to visitors right now
I always kind of wanted to be you and not you
Kind of like my dad
I adopted the same dreams but thought maybe
I would take better care of them
While I was watching your movie my friend kept texting me about how bullshit everything is
He only talks that way when he's drunk but I guess that's the way I like him best
While I was at work today I talked to my manager about how when I have kids
Cause I really want them
More than I want most things
That I would feel weird about telling them about Santa and then having to eventually
Confess that Santa was all a big lie that I told them to involve them in the spirit of Christmas
I told my manger that I probably wouldn't tell my kids about Santa and if they asked
I would admit that Santa was a complete fabrication that most parents agree it's ok to lie about
And then I would probably have to deal with a lot of other parents getting pissed off at me
For not participating in their unspoken agreement to lie to their kids about Santa
And I would have to defend myself
Because I want my kids to trust me
Think of an imagined orchestra. But there is no resonance hereabouts, so the imagination gives next to nothing for your efforts, and even in surround-sound there’s so little to reflect the dimensions of the space your walking inhabits. Sea hardly counts, having its constant companionship with wind, and sand hills absorb the footfall. A shout dies here before the breath has left the lungs.
Listen, there is a vague twittering of wading birds flocked far out on the sand. The sea rolls and breaks a rhythmic swell into surf. There’s a little wind to rustle the ammophila and only the slight undefined noise of our bodies moving in this strip between land and sea. Nowhere here can sound be enclosed except within the self. There’s a kind of breathing going on, and much like our own, it has to be listened for with a keen attention.
There is such a confusion of shapes making detail difficult to gather in, even to focus upon, and to attempt an imagined orchestration – impossible. We’ll have to wait for the camera’s catch, its cargo to be brought to the back-lit screen. Once there it seems hardly a glimmer of what we thought we saw, what we ‘snapped’ in an instant. It’s too detached, too flat. So thankfully you sketch, and I feel the pen draw shapes into your fingers and their moving, willing hand. On your sketchbook’s page the image breathes and lives.
You can’t sketch music this way because the mark made buries itself in a network that seems to defy with its complexity any image set before you. Time’s like that. You end up with a long low pitch, pulsating; a grumbling sound rich in sliding harmonics. You see, landscape does not beget melody or even structure and form, only tiny, pebbled pockets of random sound. Here, there is no belonging of music. Only the built space can adequately house music’s home. We might snatch a few seconds of the sea’s turn and wash, a bird’s cry, the rub and clatter of boot on stone, and later bring it back to a timeline of digital audio and be ‘musical’ with it, or not.
Where we hold music to landscape is something we are told just happens to be so; it is the interpretation’s (and the interpreter’s) will and whim. It is an illusion. The Lark Ascends in a Norfolk field. We hear, but rarely see, this almost stationary bird high in the morning air. We can only imagine the lark’s eye view, but we know the story, the poem, the context, so our imagination learns to supply the rest.
What is taken then to be taken back? On this November beach, on this mild, windless afternoon,. Am I collecting, preparing, and easing the mind, un-complicating mental space, or unravelling past thoughts and former plans? I can then imagine sitting at a table, a table before a window, a window before a garden, and beyond the garden (through the window) there’s a distant vista of the sea where the sun glistens (it is early morning), and there too in the bright sky remains a vestige of a night’s drama of clouds. But today we shall not put music to picture from a camera’s contents, from any flat and lifeless image.
Instead there seem to be present thoughts alive in this ancient coastline, abandoned here the necessary industry of living, the once ceaseless business of daily life. Instead of the hand to mouth existence governed by the herring, the course strip farming below the castle, the herds of dark cattle, the possible pigs, some wandering sheep, seabirds and their eggs for the pot, the gathering of seaweed, the foraging for fuel: there is a closing down for winter because the visitors are few. We need the rest they say, to regroup, paint the ceilings, freshen up the shop, strengthen the fences, have time away from the relentlessness of accommodating and being accommodating. Only the smell of smoking the herring remains from the distant past – but now such kippering is for Fortnums.
We step out across and down and up the coastal strip: an afternoon and its following morning; a few miles walking, nothing serious, but moving here and there, taking it in, as much as we can. We fill ourselves to the brim with what’s here and now. The past is never far away: in just living memory there was a subsistence life of the herring fishers and the itinerant fisher folk who followed the herring from Aberdeen to Plymouth. Now there are empty holiday lets, retirement properties and most who live here service the visitors. Prime cattle graze, birds are reserved, caravans park next to a floodlit hotel and its gourmet restaurant. There’s even a poet here somewhere - sitting on a rock like a siren with a lovely smile.
Colours: dull greens now, wind-washed-out browns, out and above the sea confusions of grey and black stone, floating skeins of orange sands and the haunting, restless skies. Far distant into the west hills are sculpted by low-flying clouds resting in the mild air. Wind turbines step out across the middle distance, but today their sails are stationary. As the bay curves a settlement of wooden huts, painted chalets then the grey steep roofed houses of stone, grey and hard against the sea.
Does music come out of all this? What appears? What sounds? What is sounding in me? There is nothing stationary here to hang on to because even on this mild day there is constant change. Look up, around, adjust the viewpoint. There’s another highlight from the sky’s palette reflecting in the estuary water, always too various and complex to remember.
Music comes out of nothing but what you build it upon. It holds the potential for going beyond arrangements of notes. Pieces become buildings, layers in thought. My only landscape music to date begins with a formal processional, a march, and a gradually broadening out of tonality the close-knit chromatic to the open-eared pentatonic. There’s a steady stream of pitches that do not repeat or recur or return on themselves, as so much music needs to do to appease our memory.
In this landscape there seem only sharp points of dissonance. I hear lonely, disembodied pitches, uncomfortable sounds that are pinned to the past. The land, its topography as a score grasping the exterior, lies in multi-dimensional space, sound in being, a joining of points where there is no correlation. There’s a map and directions and a flow of time: it starts here and ends there, and so little remains for the memory.
Yet, this location remains. We walked it and saw it fortunately for a brief time in an uninhabited state. We were alone with it. We looked at this land as it meets the sea, and I saw it as a map on which to place complexes of sound, intensities even,. But how to meet the musical utterance that claims connection? It is a layering of complexes between silences, between the steady step, the stop and view. There is perhaps a hierarchy of landscape objects: the curve of the bay, the sandhills’ sweep, the layerings of sand, and in the pools and channels of this slight river that divides this beach flocks of birds.
Music is such an intense structure, so bound together, invested with proportions so exact and yet weighed down by tone, the sounding, vibrating string, the column of air broken by the valve and key, the attack and release of the hammered string. But there is also the voice, and voices are able to sound and carry their own resonance . . .
. . . and he realised that was where these long drawn out thoughts, this short diary of reflection, had been leading. He would sit quietly in contemplation of it all and work towards a web of words. He would let their rhythms and sounds come together in a map, as a map of their precious, shared time moving between the land and the sea, the sea and the land.
deaf and dumb
are the passers by,
the visitors as well
gladly would I fill their ears
with the wisdom of weary worries,
tedious torments, but I fry their meat,
smashing it until it screams
the sizzling symphony wafts to my bulb
stirring memories of the steer, the kill,
the beatific butchering, and
the killing fields of my youth
while others see only my hunched back
and wait for their greasy grub
I ask why there is no atonement
no sorrowful song for the slaughter
of young ones in faraway lands
who fell under the “noble” knife
the bovine beasts whose skulls
were there for the bar, that dropped
with sublime indifference
as it stilled their