A Disconnect…

A Sunday that still thinks it’s a Saturday.

It almost is.  The week was already too long on Monday. Stuck in a perpetual questioning curl. The recalling of anything which happened or didn’t happen a previous day, or hour, is skewed by this squinting perspective and an unreliable short-term memory. The day after is always too soon.

And speaks in that weird way. Carefully placed and spaced syllables as if we don’t share the same first language. If you had subtitles I’d read those instead of your lips. Ideas and appearances. The first: all scooped at arms length from the same place; the second: smoothed edges spun from waxy wool. A tingling grievance against modernity, friction and static.

Was there ever really a pre-anxiety era to rightfully speak of? Ever a time when there wasn’t a fuss? Someone feeling frayed. Something before someone. Strife flung out from exploding seed heads; barrels obstructed, turning away. Points rusted, staring in the wrong direction at maximum entropy.

A poetic line – cutting to the quick.

A manifesto. A description. Imagism: direct treatment of “things,” whether subjective or objective; using absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.*

Missing or surpassing the missed or surpassed second tenet is mood dependent. A reason, either way, to while away few words. To paraphrase. And drink tea. Tea is a word which contributes quietly, modestly and soothingly to written and printed pages and to that which is said or thought, internally or out loud. Linguistic games – which add to, or distract from, another rainy afternoon. And all the while, the black and white photograph in the stuck drawer speaks to itself more deeply and more clearly.

Second guessing single moments. Moments belonging to someone else. Someone I do not know.

Rain. Mizzle. Lacking density yet soaking through skin. Teasing petals from buds and drawing flight from fledglings’ wings. Shared breaths. Patterns in puddles. Things not in or of themselves. Moments. Stillnesses. Reasons I don’t call you for coffee.

* F. S. Flint – Imagisme