Between sofa beds and mirrors. Crazy house. Post work wifi shred.

 

Back up part I ( poems from before)

 

09.01.24

The shield man's stop.

It is shut and folded, a moderate inflammation. Empty unguarded walls run, dried-out, dead. Here all the colours bleed; The lost hard expressions within the remnants of not said. Jilted, steady warriors, in an ashen waxy set. He is a fallen man, bearing small meagre things, old things from a drying world, odd things things that even now feel the calling of the hour. A temporaryness. Love abandoned here.

25.02.24

Prayer and morning pages again/ forever final last two weeks with manji?

Manjiism

She had fallen off too quickly, too smashed by the forced fiction; The steady, everyday, non stop,over-pressing momentum of the last 12 weeks.  Everything had become outside. Haphazard, and unsteady in the self. Moving too quickly in the agony of electronics and over arching people please. No wonder it had got lost. The artist's voice?  The  one true rhythm of the self? Those struggles of the reaches with the  false base beneath. This is  9-5 fighting.Inside the hammering present, and the drowning of right just to be. MB

get me back to this: 

Granada airport 8th november ( 23)

Recent trials

The phone had rung deliberately, shrill and urgent, piercing her indecision, with the last batterings of a life that was closing. She knew that, as she had looked towards the forbidding monster, an ugly last century monstrous bakelite, that she had never liked. But lucka had, and Luka had chosen it, on some anniversary somewhere..Back when he had tried to carry all the things, that she could no longer bare to know, until finally, they had both decidedly broken.

The phone had continued to wail on and off like a hungry child; as she had tacked across the rich herring bone floors. French white oak. Imported; and still incessant and repeating, the phone had continued as she had picked up her cases, and walked out of her own front door. The keys she posted through the letterbox. A distraught luca would would find them later. He had loved her, in between all her absent spaces, and for a while she had loved him back, until today, not unlike an exit that opens too quickly, and without air or reason, she had breached towards the surface. To  crowded  sky, in abstract forms, low against brown and distant hills, even with the drone of the air port behind it. Whatever it was she recognised this place, as a place without restraint, without pretence. Just another somewhere moving in a new light. Shifting her bags, a taxi, had approached, like on old man fumbling his way out of the now crowded taxi rank; “where to” he had said, as she had hopped onto the back seat of the car. in a strange growl that was so particular of these parts. For a while she had said nothing, distracted by the people on the side walk of the rank, struggling with luggage, whilst foraging for a mutually offered encompasing embrace; clumps of overcome distance mixed with the half familiar,like a pair of old loves, in a tight circle, and a small child. They were caught in some rudimentary procession, that she was unfamiliar with. The sorties of the connected. And so the driver had asked again, but this time, she had met his eyes, with the covering distance of her own, he had paused looking at her through the mirror, as if in semi doubt; before finally answering for her “ the centre”? And she so had assented not so much in words, but with something that this new place, unlike Luka, would immediately understand. And so he had pulled out into the burgeoning stream of others; she with her head still turned to watch the last of the reuniting family, just as the old man, jolly and brave had lifted up the small and squirming child, like a great papa bear pawing with a salmon. With one last glimpse she had watched them disappear; as the car snaked out fast now,in a new direction towards the new and distant city, with all it's histories that sit around  edges, things she knows she will have to face later. But now was only for the smooth soft momentum, of being capably carried, stretched out, and sunk comfortably back in her seat.. MB

garotteda

 

Russian attacks: back in the discombobulated mind stew. palm sunday: Jesus is King!

 Cosmic silence scouring for some place of movement, beyond the well worn, and the yet to burst. MB

lovely day in London. Starting the unwind.

" Officially announcing the martyrdom of the “elegant fighter,” field commander Hamza Hisham Amer, whose nickname is “Abu Hisham.”

He is the son of the martyr Qassam commander Hisham Amer, who rose in the first Palestinian intifada and was one of the first persecutors of the Qassam Brigades."

one week to go: Honest George

https://x.com/KimDotcom/status/1763655512800051677?s=20