Fractals

Cafe. Day.

The brown coffee crema and white froth milk spirals in my cup is a naked us; without bodies or minds. Too terrifying so we hold hands and pretend to be reaching for the truth. But even the most tender, most subtle reaching is too much for something so still and close.
    So we try with the lightest power; pure light, reaching through the pupils of dark skies. When we reach each other the reaching was just a dream, the truth can never come closer to itself.


Balcony. Evening.

Frogs from the river loudly sing, like whales or school choirs. I light a cigarette and watch the smoke disappear into nothing, like sound or moments. If only these heirloom wounds were as short-lived. How many more generations? Families pass down many things; recipes, violins, wealth, love, but it's the weights that set us up for growth.

Olive Green Sofa. Evening.

I quite liked visiting a climbing wall yesterday. It’s a good reminder of how the higher you climb the more dangerous the fall will be, especially with the extra weights. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been single for a while now. Only, with love it's the other way around - you fall at the beginning, and then have to climb just to get back to a height of seeing clearly again.


Bedroom. Night.

A door opens onto a corridor of time and the impulse to run never disappears. At the end I see a stained glass window promising a quality of life without any running, only singing. But the faster I run the more it moves away from me.


Υφαντουργείο. Midday.

If it is truth weaving our naked threads we will make a magic carpet. If delusion a strait-jacket. Yesterday my hand mixed sugar into my coffee and the brown fell into the white, the beige was saying: don’t fall. 

    Today another fractal, the brown tobacco and white rizzla whispering cloud-coloured smoke, if truth is everywhere, disappear and what is left?

Blessed

A pigeon, fat, grey and beautiful, is pecking at morsels of food that have dropped to the floor in my mother’s garden. The cage of food is suspended from a small olive tree, which the pigeon is too heavy to perch on and access. And so it must wait until the more dainty birds feed and chip away at the food.

It is my last day of walking up and down Barnes, judging the arrogant, slick and red banker faces and expensively moisturised face-lifted yummy mummies. My last day of admiring the trees who have had me cry to them when black hail storms pierced into my being, and been climbed by my six-year old self. My last days of being slowly chipped at like the bird food, watching pieces of soul fall onto the floor, picked up by angels, both light and dark.

One fat, grey, and beautiful angel comes to me with a piece of my father’s soul. It doesn’t belong to me, I affirm, though it seems not to speak my language. So strange, that what does seem to belong in me is another mandala, from another tree. The one whose branches are lands surrounded by a lighter blue. I already catch wafts of its warmth, seeping from the future into the barren-cursed corners of my own mandala. I’m fine with curses because they are no different to blessings; they both point me to the same place.

Many things though are clamouring for the other direction. For example Gatwicks’s duty free gauntlet run, where my nostrils are assaulted on all sides, for longer than ever before, by Hugo Boss, Dior, Calvin Klein etc. And then yet more assaults, this time on my sense of happiness with what I already have, by the tech shop. Lured into trying a pair of Bose QuietComfort noise cancelling, wireless headphones, available interest free for £43.45 per month for 6 months, I contemplate buying them. Yes I did just receive a text informing me I just went into my overdraft again, but these headphones are very comfortable. Thankfully I do manage to make it to the gate of the delayed Wizz air flight without succumbing to either the Bose or the new Hugo Boss Reflection Eau de Toilette; the bold new fragrance for the man who strives to live his own truth, every day. What an inspiring slogan.

Inspiring in the sense that it inspires the will to eradicate the fucking bullshit commercialism that every year extends it’s Hydra tentacles further and further across the world. Fuck you - that’s what it inspires, to all the world's advertising minions. Though they aren't separate from the thing in me that wants you so badly it buries itself in my heart so deep I can no longer feel it. I know it’s the same thing because it operates under the same delusion; that the heart's empty space can be filled with anything other than itself.

The Hydra

The Hydra is being sliced everyday with fuck you swords and fuck off guns. Today the digitalisation head is getting on my nerves. It is loudly snapping at my sanity and I can’t help a small fuck you, oh dear, more heads.

The Hydra cannot swim so I suggest going into an ocean everyday. We have at least learnt what it lives on, and that cutting off heads makes things worse. So stop sharpening your swords - a particularly common practice in the media.

The ocean comes with dangers all of its own; drowning, swallowing. I myself had a farewell bout of excruciating kidney pain from gulping a big mouthful of it before leaving Mexico. Perhaps it was a way of spreading its power all the way into the grey skies I am under now. Because it is powerful, much more than the Hydra. The ocean was here before the Hydra was birthed into our minds.

I take a moment to look deep into the Hydras eyes and see it will one day realise: extinction is the only inevitable event for every species in the universe once it has birthed itself into being; humans, hydras, dinosaurs, Siberian tigers etc. But on the surface of its monstrous intent, it continues, in vain, to snap eternity into pieces.