Jane has been complaining about the gossip going around at the moment. And then she found out I was going out and wanted to know who with, for dinner, staying the night and so it continues.
On the point of being sparked into life and falling back. I was able to stretch up again and enjoy it, then I moved some railway sleepers and fell back again. Feeling becomes dulled by events. Desensitised by reality. Feeling and stretching and stretching and feeling. I said I would give Leni a lift to the Alpine Garden Society's meeting. Leni and I can be so close we almost overlap, but after a while we drain each other away. It all becomes nothing. I think we repeat each others minds too easily. There becomes nothing new.
There is a Helionopsis in flower now. Pink crinkled stars nest in the middle of the rosette. An origami plant fashioned from nimble fingersled minds. E. A. Bowles was a spare, slight, austere man, not al all of the common sort. A very determined man. So he had a fat blowsy lesser celandine named after him, of indeterminate colour. If he is to rise up out of the ground, I suppose a celandine isn't a bad sort of body to be wearing.
If the form of our reincarnation is determined by our past lives it would be nice to think prostitutes and courtesans came back as variegated plants. Despised by many. Bright and gaudy. Past lives streak across a palette in white and cream. Colourless patches in a story. The spaces between life. Suffocation by photosynthesis.
It nearly rained on the world, except there was nobody there to notice. Everybody watched from the windows as it nearly rained on somebody else as well.
Emeralds lie scattered as the floor collects them in sunstreaked harmonies. Broken raindrops fall together into passing landscapes. Grey becomes greyer. Green becomes greener. Emeralds lie scattered across unexpected spaces. Golden shafts the pony trapped dew hides new meanings with old images. New realities lurk beneath metal covers and drum impatiently at the dirt encrusted undersides. Three men walk along. Three men with one mind. They don't use all of that. Three men walk along the golden shafts of dewdrops. Where they step emeralds disappear. Golden passing strongly leading dark shapes behind. Three men. One mind. No emeralds. Who feeds the pony?
Walking up. Walking down. Back and forth. Physical repetitions. Paths are defined out of nothing. Spaces articulated by passing footfalls. What was void becomes no longer. No longer pathless becomes known. Repetition makes the almost unknown almost familiar until it finally disappears ibnto other spaces. Other times. Gone like gold mounted emeralds. Gone now. gone, gone. All gone away. The cries of the Jackdaws lead them ever outward. Out of the valley. Along the lines of the hill. Inwards. In to the centre. Gone. Hidden. Lost. Golden sparkles of grey and hope found in a dusty street paved with fools. Repeated in pots like a heartbeat breaking heartbeat stage by stage.
Gentle scents are beating with the seagulls wings. Slow steady flow waves by again and again. Awake now in the noses passing by the smell of the emerald mine. Awake now in the minds of seagulls the slow wings passing.
Cool clear and open to the sky. flows the air the passing air. Away and away follow the cries the Jackdaws left to guide you. Follow the golden shafts inwards. Away now and away. Down the valley along the line the breaking hills mark. Down and out. Down and out of it all. Reach for the things glowing by parts amoing gold mounted grass. Gentle wings carry gentle fragrant messages inwards. open now. Open for those things. The cries pass overhead to rest. Away the toil away the fear. Come pass through the air like raucous cuts. Follow me. Follow me. Follow me if you will.
Mint Imperials repeat even to the end. Somehow the saddest thing I have seen was an elastoplast. Sticking to skin. Cold soft skin like a plaster. Cold soft plaster. Technology soothes the wound not the wounded. I wonder if a Tuna knows what a tin is? Tuna the colour of elastoplast crammed in a sad cold skin.
I wonder how gossip changes the world. The spaces. The pretence. The pretence of caring. Of golden imitations. Gilded memories. Pieces of what is dressed up as whole. Like the naturalistic fell of life. All the same. Flow now the crying Jackdaws.