Lastly, The View, Empty

Every day arises amidst the brittle edges of an open eye, an ache and blinking, gasping for home, a frantic composure, an adjustment. And likewise each word of each breakfast, watered down in cold air, some resilient blur, an almost organised table, a jumper on a chair, sat on and then removed. The sound of the morning world slowly strokes the grey walls, the picture-frames glint, the morning yawns white through the window.

The system breaks down and one no longer racks one’s brains, the night’s dreams are dead now, gone, forgotten, piled up in sweats, displayed on some half-idealised shelf that obscures the living room with a slant. Not put up correctly.

However, later, somehow, now, it’s the edge of the brink of the big wide cliff faced confusion, the midday, the evening mounted up to, the view, the view! And all the bodies and the brittles, all the itchy jumpers and the morning greys, they, somehow, gradually, unmistakably, clearly, wholly, disappear.

(As far as I can tell, Marcus scanned my x-rayed shoulder a few years ago and layered it onto his photo)

The dreams never died, never lived. The silence always was. The realisation plays, the song: the chords were playing when I awoke, and they will be playing when I go home and unmake my bed. The chords made some silence visible, sustained, visible, with light pluckings and a crowd of soft stings of all love and all embrace at the side, the peripherals. Past future soft threads, warm comforting thoughts, music. The crescendo was there, the diminuendo also. It was all. It was all the real system, the system that never broke down.

This post comes after a few weeks of maxed-out volume of everything that paradigmatically happens. University can be the most intense raw exposure a ‘citizen’ can endure to the agressive macho faceless paradigm HE belongs to. A period of conditions and conditions that preside by way of ‘future career options’, ‘academic practise’, ’employability’, ‘economic constraints’, ‘marking schemes’, ‘review’, ‘feedback’, ‘unprofessional’ ; these stuffs are today’s scripture and it’s force-fed you within every crack and cranny of every institution within the university’s world – it permeates an uncomfortable level of fear and neuroticism that we have come to know so well within all our commodofied interactions: yes,  conversation is an institution too. It’s relieving to realise this. It’s relieving to realise this, listen to a song, for all its reluctance to be an online commodity (indeed, a miscellaneous mp3 file on a miscellaneous blog’s SoundCloud account), feel a feeling of peaceful virtual settlement, write a blog post on the world wide web, A Pocket Full of Seeds, and then continue.  Would recommend all the above.

If you want to know about the origins of this song, Kosik the artist, the compilation it was released on called Wein, Weib und Gesang, the netlabel called Kikapu that released that compilation (a compilation that has settled well on my iPod for a few years now), then follow this link: https://archive.org/details/kpu072.

George

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