finch farm.

To change the absurd and lingering atrophy of spirit into a focal point, a chased rainbow, is undeniably the second most filtered form I can choose to entwine my life into.
    The absurd met me on a cold morning on a bridge to the city. Id awoken in a strange place, on wet cement, the bleakness sending shivers down my spine and over my head.  Even the clouds were unfamiliar, mottled with the sun as it tried to escape the moon, chasing it in a silver vision.

As my senses overtook and started to find boredom in the situation , a voice  resonated to me very clearly, “The idea is to extricate the infinite catastrophes of a single day. To pile them and sift through the varying conclusions, the dreams and nightmares of lost love, of ugly restaurants, of reflections and mirrored feelings, to prepare for the journey steadily away from ones own mind.”

    My days became train rides, the type when the ground becomes too quick to focus on.  I had been looking at daily events differently, with a layering effect. Beneath the biting salty flavour of most situations, below the caustic attitudes and drab mendacity lay a world most overlooked. Buildings became mathematical equations, geometric temples for the eye and heart. Gardens were entire cities of crawling existence, the infinite inhaling and exhaling of movement and colour. People, though still mostly gloomy and misdirected, were vessels of amazing potential, atomic machines on the verge of creating whatever they dreamt of. It was a shame that in the back of my mind I remembered how Darwin said that Peacocks made him sick.
     In that brief and seemingly ludicrous situation of realising, my woes and confusion became concentrated. All the disturbing clutter of a rusty-wheeled world flooded my ears. All the surface material, the non-thinking spite of a million voices pointed at me and asked me to perform like a circus monkey.  I could feel an unveiling. The fake moustache and beard of the world peeled off to reveal a more charismatic and charming character. I could feel the life of all things detailed, coursing through my hands and muscles as I moved.
    I saw my first memory on a country farm in twilight, the nail polish from a girl I loved, the tea leaves in my cup the day my heart was broken, paintings reduced down to single brushstrokes in the bottom right hand corner, entire years broken up into individual seconds, cats eyes and blue eyes and perfume from old letters, parents and their dreams, the books I never read and the ones I read too many times, the forgotten moments, the regretful moments, the moments from an existence usually hidden from view.
  
 The days became less tainted and easy to walk with. I breathed in more than air. Around my bloodstream circulated oxygen and image, vision and correlation; the decay of truth had sunk into a coma, and I smiled at ants and flower petals like they were relatives.


I took my time, and time took parts of me.

There are points dotted in elegance and draped in the finery of beauty, they emerge from mysterious shards the moment your eyes are open and are permeated with a lustrous audacity.
We slink out in the freezing air and go night swimming. You would talk about it in your sleep and when I told you the words you had mumbled your eyes glowed and sparked like flint and steel. To behold those sweeter moments and conserve your energy for thought and play is all I ever wanted.
Your frame held lightly in moon speak, the lining of your lips shone and I wanted to kiss the mercury that danced across your face. Points of light like stars or candles on a quiet beach, the whitest ghosts of sheer hope; the lit particles that combine, meld and sweep the dust from memory. You cling to these points, scrape and search when everything seems a whirlwind.
We dove in blackness and I thought you looked like a shadow learning to swim.
Points of simple smiles, soft-spoken words or jokes in car trips that never end. You may notice nothing at all when you slump in an empty room at the end of a muscle wasting day, the quietude and familiarity washing over you like a hot shower. The invisible parts are constantly there, lurking and hiding for the perfect moment to caress your soul.
I thought parts of your face looked like mirror pieces from a bad luck experience I once had, only there was 7 years of good…and counting.

2 hours from takeoff

I could fall at someones feet with the raindrops, and shatter on wet cement, roll into the gutter clinging to the mossy edges, waiting for the heat of existence to pull me back together and stand me up straight, shoulders to the clouds.

I would freeze all emotions and waver with the snowflakes in the crystal air. Id sleep on the bonnet of my car and move when the ignition turns and the wipers push me onto the crisp lawn.

I can wake up with the frost on the autumn leaves, meld into the greenery of healthy jealousy and wait for the wind to blow me over. Id tumble and fly my words and ideas with the weather woman predictions untill i found myself drifting in an ocean; of love, life, pondering necessities.

I could pretend for a second that the words i use are seperate from my surroundings, and sink back into the whiteness of an empty page.

The days are pets held on short leashes and fed with the sympathy and appreciation that only a talc white chemist might prescribe when the wind wraps around your frame. We, in the thickness of thought and laden with curiosity, start to decry in ostensible delight at the breeze that mimics the lovers hands on skin, on lips, in eyes, in words and piercing reality. Yet we cherish our suburban monsters, crouching behind unspoken latency.