How many more?

This is another late request. This is the second in quick succession. And silhouettes around the companion frame. A frame of light blowing past your edges. The brain recedes. The brain explodes in light. Excruciation.

What are titles amongst friends? The sounds of the past. The hours at play. The soundtrack to a childhood. We all hear the slips and the mistakes. We never forget the soundtracks and the feelings that they convey and embody. they are the most powerful of them all. Before we had the moving images to replace their story telling every tune was a place and an emotion. Every ripple of sound was full of place, time, emotion, feeling, narrative. the most expressive of sounds is the one that emotes an event. The one that tells a story without words. The one that lets a specific configuration of vibrations ring out true and full… the personal, the political, the local, the national.

Worts and all. These nights used to be the special ones. Now we just recover from the week’s damage. Rename the week’s end… Repair and recovery.

The detune is the essence of it all. And we look down hallways known for life and wait for the constructed awkward to pass. This is not how it was meant to be but always known to be the case. Look into that mirror, knock the head back and gaze at the roof. Let’s go now. How many more times this will come and go and come and go. The rhythm of numbers and letters ring true with the rhythm of past vibrations. I can feel the feelings I had then. The rhythm with which the faders and the buttons coincided with the sounds pre-made and lined up. The plans and designs come best sometimes from the end of a finger. No preconceptions, no corrections. Just pure ideas and feeling. The emotions of that time and space. That place you were in when you made it. When you thought like that. When you were that person. Looking at the week like just another. Not looking at a deadline or long term goal. Just looking at the wall in front. The same mirror. The same roof. Thinking let’s stay here and get it right. Let’s never leave. Let’s get up to this and only this and focus and keep it that way for good.

This is how it should always be. This is how I am happy with it. This is how I want it to stay.

But it never will. feeling the flow and the rhythm will never stop but the time and place will grow and develop with the soul/. The body gets older. The body gets heavier. The bones slow down. The mind gets slower. The time and place, will, change. That is inevitable.

And breath. And do it all again.

Waiting for the next

You watch it burning slowly down. Moments between instances. What stops me in this. Silence. No expectation. A void. Avoiding. Listening for the air through the vents. That sound in the silence. Waiting all day for that silence. That non event. 

What escape. Pure freedom. Listening. Inactive. Holed in. Thinking. Between orders and expectations. Tasks and trouble. The next thing to do and what is expected. But this. Moment. Lethargic slow burning moment. Listening to air pass elsewhere. This is my choice. 

Those moments when it gets put aside. Above the sea. Surrounded by consequence rather than construction. And nobody sees it. Nobody realises. Planning, thinking, creating… The birth of all happiness in those moments where nothing is expected. Free. 

It cannot last. 

And every moment burns shorter still. Squeezed by the weight of expectation. Smells less sweet. Produces less fruit. And another bomb will set in motion the next phase of death and rebirth. The same mistakes. 

Nothing stops you. 

Something More Substantial

Thought about as a larger project, something that brings one element together to a more “finished” state. For the sake of it. But you need to consume more of it to know really how it is. The act is not merely enough to go on. One must also know the art. And it should work well. Like it always has. Fluid, without thinking. A collection of short bits. Snippets. Shards of a view on a constant movement through it all. Shards. Broken. Whole.

And the noise got too much. Sat in the corner watching from behind a cover. It was a spectator sport, an observation on its affects. Nothing more than that. Too loud. Causing winces and looks at the faces of other spectators from afar. Need transport? No, got this. Get out, escape. Know exactly why it is all avoided. Think about that sheet of images and sayings you consumed once. The ones that described it perfectly. The introversion. The outward introversion. Wanting inner spaces to escape too and having limits on the outer spaces and how extreme they can get… how out of control. Pushing lines. Control it if you can. Can’t stop yourself. Get out of it. Mindedness. Escape the situation.

And memories were generated between set and rise. Hard fought moments between the covers. The eyes folded blind by the brain. Such vivid memories. Of flooded shores and Grammar on stage, couples in a side room being free to their selves. Happy females. Lines of shit. Vivid hard decisions and escapes to other opportunities. They mount in your head. Generating impulses that wake you. Generating responses that affect your waking life. Demanding answers from questions you were afraid to ask yourself. Embrace that escaped world between the covers. Answers abound.

The rules allow for the shape of all of this. The rules of play. And Play still escapes them all, drawn in by the opportunity to play, for real, true play. Still waiting for those opportunities. Still asking for them. Silent refusals abound. And play is replaced by pressure. By obligation and hours remaining. By disregard and functional optimisation.

It is good. It is efficient. It lacks enjoyment. So play.

And a week goes by without progress… one directly after the last of determination and spirit. But the time away allows for perspective and viewpoints. And a question to scrap a core idea is allowed to be asked. Take it or leave it. But exiting none the less.

Find time this week to play. Demand it. And be confident in the ideas that generated the last two. Play to win.


In the Quiet Times

It is easy to stop when the going is good, or when the mind is so occupied that there is no time to comment. I am acting on things now and resolving issues faster than before. There is a control.

Control. That has become the core concern. Delusion. Derision. These are the words coming out right now for no reason other than to comment. The struggle is with what is public and what is not, but only Iberian eyes are directing their attention this way, and only for the sake of a wayward search. Redirect, refocus, and they are gone.

Moving along that low road by the river. Realising it was all a great time in the end and wondering why I was so quick to want to leave. Living in a bubble, a circle of 8 lane passages into the heart of the machine. It was silly and immersive. It wrecked the mind and built it a new.

Everything is so controlled now.

Bubbling Blue Screams of Light Intense

And we wonder who there was in that person… why that person? and we wandered and wondered. They execute with perfection the failed week and the demolished sanctuary of the fearful world.  This will not be televised.. do i have the ability to express over this jive? This verbal poetry? Yikes thats another gem in the forest… it makes your head spin in movement amazing. In strength disaster.


This wont be the last.. and yet the time is constant.. the time is ever strolling towards the finish line.. the start of yet another day of execution.. on either side of the fence… lets set ourselves up right in the middle of that wooden forest.. let’s get sorted.. lets find a toilet bowl with meaning..


Meaning… errrrrg in this temple the meaning makes perfect sense… i think



Oh what to think,

You go and come, and fold out a new one. Its been awhile and now i look back and wonder how i reacted.

It was funny and long, stupid and funny.

But the liquid memories make sense now, it was and it was great. And IT was.

Maybe i should go and find my own, Link fire to them and see if they rise up into the sky. There was every sense of the world in that time. So little to worry and constant improvement in everything. Ahhhh but now i have come to disregard the other stuff… the things that are best forgotten. It was long after all.


Ill still go and find them.. that year of long… ups and downs.


Guess id like to thank them… i smiled a lot.

A Response to “Time” – from “The Existential Crisis and other Musings” by Mo

Holding on
have i any need to wait and see why? Its in my ears, yet even when i take the vessel away it remains in my temples
flowing across my contents
is it not there forever?

Is this even an issue, can it ever be over.

I have placed my hand upon it
clicked it into eternity
this can never be fully destroyed
its out there somewhere
we seek eternity through our actions
we want to beat this giant shadow
i click everything i have into eternity
sifting through the net
and my ears are united with the rest of the world
with the world who wants to preserve me
me and my time
me and my reason

I try to find reason at night
this black box
this home

so strong
but what else?
i would scream for this understanding
i am in silence
my temples talk to me
my mind is free

its quiet here
this is in time
this is time i cant share

in these words
in moments of noise
in it all i am cutting every wrist
this is in time

with every thought in this silence
bouncing of the sides of me black box
i am dying
and time is in this.

Time is irrelevant
because time is in this
and now that we have created time has become irrelevant.

“At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.”

Thomas Hardy “The Darkling Thrush” (Extract)

And so we sing