Archive for April 12th, 2011
We recently painted the living room. Since then, I open the book I’m reading and after reading for a while, I imagine painting over the page with a dark paint. It is as if this imagined act awakens me. I ask why this keeps happening. Does the book lull me to a semi-conscious state, and in that state, do I want to wipe it from my life? The book happens to have tedium as a main topic. Why can’t I stay awake? Why does my mind want me to be a painter? I presume it is because I don’t understand words.
Level, smooth, cracked, dull pain.
It is my world today.
I accept this with my apple and banana as company.
My right eye hurts.
The fan is dry.
I need oil to keep the machine going.
Perfume is entirely offensive right now.
Listening to Brahms
takes me to the good of childhood
when I longed to create art,
remembering days when I could dream freely.
I didn’t tell anyone about my dreams,
so no one laughed at me.
Now, I declare I still understand Brahms.
He speaks to me and I feel it in a deep zone.
But now I know
all I can do is spectate,
unable to communicate what’s inside.
I shiver in joy with the understatement
and simplicity of Brahms,
and the understatement of unequaled power.
I’d like to smoke cigars with Brahms
at the street café.
I’d plead for him to tell me
all he knows about music and life.
The end of the first Symphony,
much like the end of the second.
I lose myself.
I want to be lost forever.