I remember standing there and thinking this is exactly as I would have expected it to be. The themes here are all chosen according to a formula. The patterns have not been changed. This is how it would be every time. The names change but nothing else will. The themes here are chosen according to a formula. Tins of cat food are opened repetetively and a large pilke of empty tins builds up to represent satisfaction, or poor refuse collection. Looking through the faces and seeing no content. Seeing straight through to the next face. It is very frightening. It is strange and sad and very empty. Eyes without eyes. Faces without faces. It is stale oil that falls down the walls. It is dark, it is warm. It is empty cat food tins. It is the only security there is. It is the only security they have. Here. The stone. The beams. Oil falls down the walls. Stale oil. Green plastic escapism into blue plastic seats. A cold hard light is involved with not being involved. Introduce me to the ceiling. I have nothing more to say. The hold is weak. The place is warm and full of people sharing a group security. I see you. I see you tanding there. I see you. In your face I feel for you. In those eyes I look for you and you are never there. That is no accident. Accidents of that space never occur in innocent minds. I think all I see is the gravel of existence grinding through your life to erode all there ever was. It is the spaces are all I see. I see your arms. Everybody sees your arms. You see your arms. You see yourself in part. That is clear. You use that. You use what you know. It is a small and weak net that you have cast. A web of light, a web of darkness. You know how. You have done this all so many times. Life is life is webs of light of darkness. In the solid space where hoarfrost was. The dancing lights are dancing. The lights are in and out. Here then not here. The dancing lights are moving in and out of this. The darkness pushes forwards and back. Be here be gone all at once. One thing not another not one. Both. The difficulty of the things that are simultaneously impossible. They go on. They go off. Lights shine. Bright beams of darkness between then. The dancing lights are spinning around aimlessly. One is standing at the centre doing things that are not going to be seen to have been done. That is where the tensions are springing from. The bottom is on top of the top. The spinning lights are dancing aimlessly. The aimless dancers are spinning needlessly. Rotating. Standing still and rotating. Put your hands into the bran tub and pull out your losses. A handful of bran scatters down to the gound. Each spinning flake describing to itself a pattern. Looking at people dancing there are some people and some space fillers. There are some people with key movements in their bodies. People who dance attitudes. And those are spreading through the rest. An ugly movement here is repeated again and again among the dancers. Slowly over the weeks the shapes and colours and movements spread through the floor. Groups form. Groups of movement. Styles of movement. Like fashions they grow imperceptibly. There are very few here who stand at all independently at ease. One lies propped against the next. Their faces are empty. Their eyes are empty. Their minds are waiting to be filled. They are open to suggestions. They have none of their own to add. How can that ever happen. Perhaps it is just relaxing fully. Emptying their minds out of content. Emptying their eyes. Perhaps they should be seen out of this place to know for sure. Perhaps it is that I will not let go at all. Not let go at all. If there was a mirror there I would see it in my face. One way or another.
A cross wind. I am warned of a cross wind. A cross wind is blowing. A very cross wind. I am on the road. On the road driving. Driving entirely by smell. Eating peppermints and driving entirely by smell. I am very tired so I have lowered the levels. It is all much simpler for me, harder for anybody else. Somebody who would usually still be here hours klater has dunk his coffee and gone hurriedly. When it is calculated and controlled it is seen as a joke, a style. When it is natural it is not seen in such reassuring ways. Run. Run, hide. You are right to stand back. Look up. Take two paces forward. One group can have new hinges made. One group can have old hinges taken away. One day both groups will see in part. New, old. Here, away. New, old. They will finally reject the pin. The binding pin. A smile and it falls away. reject the pin with a smile. Drive entirely by smell. One is clear, one is clearing, one is clouded.
It is words. Here they all dance aimlessly and that is all will be seen of it. Dancing like the dark spaces. Dancing like the eyes and faces. It is words. The rules of words are not the rules of other things. It is the space between the different sets of rules that confuses you. Release them. Release them all. Allow words to fly off erratically like butterflies. Release them all into the air. A giant balloon race. If it is more explicit it won't work. If it is less explicit it can't happen. There we are. Trapped. And the only judgement you have is mine, and that is never to be trusted. Too few words and you won't understand and I won't be trusted. Too many words and you can't understand and I won't be trusted. Just enough words and you will understand, and then there is no need of trust.
The green shampoo has rapidly grown stale. It nearly reached you but then was not seen into. It opened the door but did not beckon the waiters. The green shampoo is stale now. What was precious was used to help you and niow it is gone. Now I have to let go of what I valued. To help you it was a gift you didn't use. Perhaps there is a man who has made a collection of the falt white seeds of sweet peppers. Now I release you. You can fly away if you choose.