Friday, January 13, 2012

DSC_4112 [psp] - Black DogA bit of a no can do. Yesterday was the first counselling session. It didn't happen; counsellor needs healing. London didn't happen. Food didn't happen. Sleep didn't happen. But weird dreams came over open eyes, altitude sickness symptoms well below the tree line. Listless yet lethargic, angry yet anxious, so, so scared.

The grating of Brandenburg at four, the comical vox pop pig farmer on the half-hours, the disquieting liveliness of others listening, the moon battling the dawn.

The farthest hill beyond the church is black ink running, blue mist over darkening shade and ivy, golden tan twigs flourishing.

Not now. Now the bald man's office matches the sky above, cold fluorescence through nineties' tint and white gold, also cold.

One apology sent. The not-fussed remain so. The oddly-cares need doing, but not quite yet. Instead hunched, Sigur Ros peripheral.

Need to buy a lottery ticket. As much chance that as anything else.

The future-planned suddenly daunts. If limbs too heavy to lift, what chance eyes, smile, brain? Once more unto the breach, tears from the crush of joy. Brine, my long streak of piss, sliding through the claimed salving, solving, balm of slick oily confident company's comfort. The blithe, bonny, and gay, taunt. Schadenfreunde.

I must not take pain in the pleasure of others. And yet my perpetual inability to notice potential, to peruse, pursue, possibilities pricks, pillages, plunders, prevents the popular pretence.

Style as ever over substance, and poor, puerile, style at that. Message mired in the medium. Should have stuck at Schadefreunde. Blackjack doesn't have five-card tricks.

Hollowness wears thin.


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