Work over, angles gone. Worn down to the broken line. Done traipsing the outfields and hard runs of a six till midnight commute. No more early-morning trees splayed against hard-darkened light, the sun hiding in weary; not showing it's face till after morning coffee, to find me rooted firmly behind an irradiated moldering desk. As jobs go it wasn't too harsh, but then the world has become more blasted since my last foray: cell towers and radiation
screens pock-mark in 360. Hovels and dens of emf excess hit four ways
and boot into the elemental, leaving you multi-fragmented. A million fallen pieces burning up on re-entry. These are the journeys of breaking
sensitivity. Flayed in all directions. I pads, ultrasonic mouse
expellers, plasma fridges, the full gamut and variety of electronic graters. Each
day it's a different kind of crush, a harder form of bury. The slog and
constant smack down to energetic dust. This is the life of me. Scared
to move, afraid to stay. Gun-blasted and corpse-ridden. One of the
electronically defeated. In the last year one feels more and more the
push from the increasing dense impracticalities of a dense-distort Digitialised life. Greys days strung-out in the Bio-energetic smash. The world has become
more and more diverted; more and more cross purposed with it's self, full of the automated
smart-connected who thrive on brain-dead webs of
24 hr energetic splutter. Screen-saving as they search between the cracks . These zombie hordes ! The virtually-intimate
jacking up in all my former beloved communal spaces. So it's down
to foundational survival;fault lines of breaking urgency; seismic
strain-points on a raggedy biological map as we the
real-world suckers buckle under the pressing incredulity of a played out
plasma-world. Suffocating en-masse like broke canaries.Gasping and thrashing in this tearing of
humanity; blinded by the bare bones of our own collective decomposing mass.
I can’t write today everything feels cut. Dregs
rolled down to the dirt. The sun is blazing through winter telling me that everything is going to be fine; the sky an
impossible shade of optimistic blue, suggesting that
as the world turns, spring with something "other" will come rising. That somehow
over this lake of burning,new life will call us to a new way. But these
are fleeting thoughts;the calming rays of Sunday are deceptive,because tomorrow
it’s back to commuter journeys,lost time,and the molten burn up of
re-entry. The tethers of work that fixate
and drug; squandering the real breath - the mind and all it’s imaginings. Those lofty
castles that call out to be build,pinned down and wrestled firmly to the ground. Edifices of plenty that would summons a heart. Is it wrong to demand a place to stand without encumber? To spend these precious few years making life
with your own hands? Music,paint, books,words. The real stuff. The real
walk. The only thing that matters in this fucked-up, vertically-integrated, wake-work-sleep till you die life-tax paradigm. MB
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
