Today's trip:
Words – movement - more words.
I am going back to feeling strongly about moving slow, but have also been inspired by last nights Hip Hop troup to rediscover pure energetic physicality, if that is possible. Dancing does do me good.
MAGNIFY AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Today is exploring island life: believers are not always to be avoided (some have nice hair and just want to hang out). Barest of feet, dripping chlorine flavored sunshine, I am feeling again at home. People’s eyes do not lie mostly:mostly I do not lie.
Toppling the angst happens at an instant, whether my own personal attacks or particular atmospheric clouds. Floating.
But the real-time comparisons are still assisting my learning, that is my inevitable pattern and I realish this predicament. Colonial kings still live however much they attempt to play politically correct it is still impossible to circumnavigate the presence or lack of llll lov ve in people.
We are trying. We are hoping to find that…
(wait Christmas has passed so we can stop with the good Christian business).
The dancing is a bridge. If I can cross my canals, if I can fly high like sci-fi soon-to-be reality
(a French man has taught me how to choreograph swimming strokes)
...then there is potential for this to hold some real substance. At the moment I still think this is a winning game: being on my team, it's rigged and heavily illegal. But we cannot escape our contexts, subtexts I am taking that as a given (however often it needs reminding).
Maybe this movement revolution is what needs focus. Bodies, babies, big bamboo buildings, bubbles bursting, blood bleeding (mostly unnoticed), mythical botanical-fanatical dreams dropping catching making love.
Lll lov ve if you occassionaly enjoy moments of ‘true beauty’,
(call out to Mr. Greenwood and his suspended suspenders)
…then jumping off the chair seems like the only thing to do. Realistically.
Godly rays, I still like Jesus, its exciting to be in a land of baby saints, he seems a little more inviting than the criss cross christmas card cardigans of the north (or south), candels burn hotter in humidity, I am moist right now. Mmm moist, misty and making love. The kind that does not give you heartache.
No no no
This is what breeds my heart ache. This journey always taking priority.
Back to ranting lovelies, they are tasting sweet. Sweet like my Shanghai.
Each house has this one kind of light bulb. In the darkness of the night and the perspective of the car window I fell in love with articifical white light for the first time. Head over heals. Yellow had always held my fancy. Each family, each abode (however fragile, however simple) illuminated as we passed, a grounded horizontal inter-galactic experience.
By the magic of technology, the dancers can blow out their own artificial candels, leaving their predicament behind or just making a wish, predicting what could come. Maybe it’s a story about the ongoing industrialisation still taking place, here with its total loss/inability to camouflage itself. Somehow these bulbs can be little electric swords, watch them swing, throw them away. Learning to fight is to learn to not fight: defence defence defence: ATTACK IS SLOW MOTION.
The grey sea is my old friend.
The grey sky a comforting constant.
Greyness is indeed a nice condition.
Even this writing is eternally plagued by its failure of being no more than grey.
…
Two bodies make two and colour is colour blind.
Scratch scratch, fading is my momentum.
Pointless is this music, no more than pretty ambience.
Like these little lines of clotted cream cocain.
Peaks cannot make a straight line.
But homemade is still better. Home cooked is still better.
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