when
the dust settles, everything stays the same, or not entirely
what
is the story I want to tell you?
what
is the story you would like to hear?
where
do we meet in the middle of these two desires?
imagine
two people meeting each other on a road, each one travelling alone. the sudden
appearance of the other unsettles and heartens at the same time.
what
are the first words they say to each other?
why
is speech so removed from written language, why do we speak words so
carelessly?
worn
out clichés and the gentle loss of words.
i never wrote about it before (art and what it means to me). it might become the
biggest cliché ever.
like
a huge balloon that fills an entire room, o please, will someone please pop it?
stupid
inflated ideas about worth.
that
this pause lasts a whole lifetime, in parallel, absolute parallel to the life
that travels, ticks, grows in the wrinkle on my hand.
the
chatter fades. the slight blips and crackles. ruffles of dust pass by
doors
open
doors
close
is
this the story you wanted to hear?
no?
try
again.
imagine
two people meet at a busy bus stop, on a busy day, in a busy city, each one
travelling alone, together. the bus doors hiss closed. your conversation took
me into the following week.
so,
I stand, eyes open, ears open. I don’t speak for a week. I don’t sit down for a
week. my back grows strong (I’m walking).
my
thoughts amass, form a multitude and then disperse politely.
in
every situation the small things have power.
we
now look to you, storyteller, to be our guide. the reversal of centuries.
the
shoes are shod.
the
stamps inked.
what
about the letter sent but not received?
what
thing was missed?
there
was a picture in his wallet of a woman he met during the war but never saw
again.
then
fifty years later he saw her, he took no action.
completely
stilled by the realisation of her presence,
but
you want to hear some other topic don’t you?
how
the horizon starts from the ground up
how
meaning evades and permeates every possible surface and how all our ideas are
corruptible.
to
be more hopeful
I
like mystery, I’ll confess.
dinda
fass 3 June 2012