zaterdag 16 augustus 2014

a summer song for my love

                    3 o'clock in the afternoon 
                    The back has fringes and the front is bare.
                    What hovers above gives an impression of being tired, 
                    but this impression is deceptive; 
                    in a millisecond it can accelerate to a speed 
                    that defies the power of perception of any trained eye.

                    You can imagine a street in East Berlin, say in 1970.

                    It is 3 o'clock in the afternoon and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in a city without cars.

                    The tears flow unnoticeably. Or is this impression deceptive as well?



                    4 o'clock in the afternoon 
                    Below, at the foot of the climb, the students have gathered.
                    The winner of the theoretical round ceded his place to the woman who scored the least points.
                    The team talked and sulkily agreed.
                    This was the first mistake.

                    About the weather conditions I can be brief: these are optimal.
                    Which does not alter the fact that two of the participants – one from the vanguard and one from the rearguard – ponder leaving the project 
                    as they consider the temperatures that are to be expected.
                    The remaining members of the expedition not noticing this doubt, is the next mistake.

                    Halfway up the path, the mountain has already exposed many secrets.
                    Excitement in one half, numbness in the other.
                    None of the halves as yet visited by fears.
                    This will change; if the current pace is maintained, darkness and human will meet at exactly 16 hours 30 CET.
                    Trust in this prognosis leads to the third mistake.

                    You can imagine a movie with Julia Roberts, say the one in which she is Hikalaia, who plays that she is climbing a mountain.

                    It is 4 o'clock in the afternoon and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in a motel room without a television.

                    The tears flow unnoticeably.
                    And this might be the last mistake.



                    5 o'clock in the afternoon 
                    The circuit has been opened up to annuals who have experience with failing future forecasts.
                    Many times, the overactive reason has been rapped over the words and sent to the passive corner to reflect.
                    This seems like a child's play, and it is; just taste how after a pinch of morality it fatally goes bad.

                    I acknowledge the authority of the rainbow.
                    The command is given to ignite the fuse, that will make the wound explode.
                    Those who will face the challenge will witness how at the heat of the fever the cacophony of sounds falls silent.
                    The mega rain, that can be ordered by an SMS to 06SHAMOONA, takes care of the rest.

                    You can imagine the smile of a toothless mouth, say your great-great-grandmother's.
                    Her name might be Linden.
                    A name given her neither by her mother nor by her father nor by her spouse.
                    She got it from the Civil Registry, which picked it up through the village grapevine.
                    Yes a glimpse of admiration could be detected in the chatter about the pair that sure enough 
                    was able to hold out now for more than four seasons, there under that tree.
                    What is true is true: their features were delicate, their eyes were fierce and their laughter was loud.
                    But it was reliable people, as he called her Anna and she called him Peter.

                    It is 5 o'clock in the afternoon and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but under a flowering linden tree.

                    The tears flow unnoticeably. Like the blood, 
                    against the current.



                    6 o'clock in the late afternoon 
                    The sword is between the blankets in the blanket chest.
                    This chest is 123 springtimes young and has not once been moved.
                    As opposed to the sword, that has shone in the light of every sun above every known part of the world.
                    Now the steel is tarnished and while cutting it took many a cut.
                    Ah the sobs that this sword heard.
                    And still hears, for the wanderers know how to find it.

                    You can imagine a month with 61 days and nights, say in the sea south of the Southern Sea.

                    During the day the winds confer and at night when they have spread, there is a quietude 
                    that is nowhere to be found but on a water without ripples.

                    The tears flow and gather unnoticeable under the tail of the green-eyed hurricane fish.



                    7 o'clock in the early evening 
                    The balance must occasionally be disturbed.
                    I hear you grumbling? 
                    Then let me state it once more, this time with emphasis.
                    The balance must occasionally be disturbed.

                    The festivities already leaned towards the noisy side, so no more than a push is needed.
                    If anyone who is capable of moving even one cell joins now, we confiscate whatever we can think of.
                    Just to drown it in the Small Ocean in a sober ceremony.

                    All cars? All satellites? Let's do it! 
                    I hear you grumbling? 
                    Then we'll take all the conference tables too.

                    You can imagine a hospital with an empty pavillion, say two thousend beds.

                    It is 7 o'clock in the early evening and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but where here and there share the same space.

                    The tears flow and are absorbed unconditionally by the roots of the linden tree.



                    8 o'clock in the early evening  
                    The fruit bowl has little horns, one for each child.
                    The buzz in the cloakroom resounds in the kitchen like an overheated conversation between insects.

                    A bit soggy, the pastry; it is clear that should one be determined to keep this new pair of hands for serving, 
                    an additional pair will need to be recruted for the preparation.

                    The stones have been taken out of the children and this is noticeable; the ease with which they are being consumed would be shameless 
                    if the price paid had not been so staggering.

                    You can imagine a zoo the size of a metropolis, say on the puszta.

                    It is 8 o'clock in the early evening and all the cell phones present, have been provided with a clone of your SIMcard.
                    You receive a call and there follows a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in the sound of a million yesses.

                    The tears flow and cool your cheeks.



                    9 o'clock in the early evening
                    The age of this magnificant clan is dizzying.
                    The lineage goes back to before the invention of the printing press, but because the manuscripts were lost in the fire of 1777 
                    an exact date can no longer be established with certainty.

                    There are rumors about the first ancestors giving each other their vows in the year 0 CE, but to me this seems a case of myth formation.
                    Though it is true that the bird, that flew model for the logo adorning the family crest, 
                    has become an extinguised species about a thousend years ago.
                    A group of women and men, who pretended to be wandering acrobats, are supposed to have given the last specimen to a bey in the Libanon, 
                    as compensation for a hospitable welcome.
                    Special, and that is why it is pictured in a miniature, that afterwards has been dated 999 CE.

                    The mummified remains of a similar bird was miraculously saved from the fire, 
                    or rather, miraculously succeeded in saving itself from the fire.
                    But this is different story.

                    You can imagine a plane full of Ibiza travelers, say in 1999.

                    It is 9 o'clock in the early evening and because of an irregularity on the airstrip, the landing is delayed.
                    Describing circles the machine rises steadily, until a quietude is reached that is nowhere to be found 
                    but at an altitude that makes returning impossible.

                    The tears flow, pills and powders and piercings spontaneously connect and the jewel that is the result
                    enchants with a magnitude of 76 on the scale of NCC.



                    10 o'clock in the evening 
                    In her natural goodness Hikalaia has taken pity on all evil.
                    Her tour of the four elements has been completed and the success is one hundred percent.
                    Those who still want to measure themselves against the revocable will first have to lose all of their possessions.
                    Try it.

                    You can imagine a three meter deep trough filled with pig manna, say unidentified fetuses.

                    It is 10 o'clock in the evening and the moon is waning.
                    On the windowsills sit apples, of the same variety as those the poet sang about in an anthologized poem.
                    There is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in the opinion of the masses.

                    The tears have unnoticeably fructified the bareness and irrevocable fullness will be yours.



                    11 o'clock in the evening
                    After all, have the extremes of idolatry not been reached? 
                    Isn't the journey light when you deposit the weight all over the world, while you yourself track with full hands through the empty middle? 
                    Are the meshes of the net not yet big enough for two? 

                    Ah the questions of life bring an allergy to each throat that begins to answer, 
                    if not death has been consulted first
                    and if not the key to the west has been turned and removed from the lock first.

                    You can imagine a judicial agency, say in a concrete bunker.
                    People have been replaced by computers, say thirty, 
                    each fed with the Book of Law.
                    And in addition, in each computer has been installed an interpretation program; 
                    from the roughly three thousand that were developed, the Supreme Council has selected thirty.
                    Based on the provided files, the job of the defense is to formulate the indictment, 
                    that will be evaluated by the computer on thirty levels.
                    Level 1, that refers  to the letter of the law, 
                    must be accepted by all thirty, while 
                    the remaining levels can either be accepted or rejected.
                    The machine that can go along the longest, in the reasoning that led to the formulation, 
                    determines the penalty.

                    It is 11 o'clock in the evening and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in a fully computerized environment.

                    Should tears flow here, they will not go into the files.



                    12 o'clock midnight 
                    Recently the syndicate has sold all its shares, as only just now came into the open.
                    As to the exact considerations behind this decision one can only guess.
                    Your hunch is as good as mine.

                    So for what mine is worth, here you have it: 
                    cash was needed to buy the silence of certain parties.
                    Although not involved in any way, the one thing I can reveal is 
                    that the old name of one of the partners played a decisive role.

                    A last minute solution, figured out by the hired troubleshooter, 
                    who also happens to be the youngest scion with the same name.
                    An obliging boy, 
                    who turns into a hysterical tyrant 
                    as soon as his advice does not get a practical follow-up immediatly.

                    You can imagine a greyhound, trained to the max, say to his whiskers.

                    Soon it will be 12 o'clock midnight and there will be a quietude that is nowhere to be found 
                    but in the ear deafening noise of printing presses running at full speed.

                    The tears that will flow will mix with the ink, 
                    that  is supposed to make tomorrow's news visible.



                    1 o'clock at night
                    The interests of the children's room.

                    Give me the five leading ones.
                    Give me three hours on the Internet.
                    Give me five minutes of speaking time.

                    In contemporary TV-language I will show up the underlying ideas 
                    in a devastating light, that I borrow from Pythagoras.

                    You can imagine a mantra with directions for use, say on DVD.

                    It is 1 o'clock at night and the light of the LCD screen gives you a quietude 
                    that you did not even experience during your retreat in Sicily.

                    All dams break and by morning your tears have flooded your room.



                    2 o'clock at night 
                    Also the debauched aspiration has reached its limits.
                    What once was the password now is a virus, 
                    accompanying every tenth mail sent with the use of macrohard.

                    Hey boy, was your razor still sitting solid in the holder this morning? 
                    Do know that the saints have laid down their weapons, 
                    have exchanged their march for a two-step.
                    So – yes girl, you too – get a grip, is my suggestion.

                    Or has literally everyone really forgotten all that matters?

                    You can imagine a racetrack with five trillion starting lines, say somewhere on the edge of the wide outside world.

                    It is 2 o'clock at night and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in a fragmented parabola.

                    The tears evaporate and the haze makes you choose one over the other.



                    3 o'clock at night 
                    You being tired is understandable; you let yourself be challenged by a player who is invincible.
                    If only you had let yourself be challenged by nature; now that would have been an ally worthy of your considerable powers.

                    Because I know my Most Precious to be on my side, 
                    anyone who takes me on, 
                    begins any match with a disadvantage.

                    You can imagine a lost bet, 
                    say about the rain that bent to the south, while your gaze swept the north.

                    It is 3 o'clock in the night and your organs begin to swell.
                    You ask yourself: Am I speaking or am I listening? 
                    Your answer is: both.
                    You ask yourself: Am I leaping or am I stumbling? 
                    Your answer is: both.
                    You ask yourself: Am I following or am I leading? 
                    Your answer is: both.
                    It is 3 o'clock and 33 minutes at night and the quietude you long for 
                    you find in an oversized pair of pants lying on the rug in front of your bed.

                    Now you can admit that the response of the child did hurt you.
                    But to make the tears flow the rejection was just too impersonal.



                    4 o'clock at night 
                    The ten year old girl turns eleven tomorrow.

                    Scientific interest has given her a position that requires elementary navigation.
                    But elementary navigators have become rare since metal was replaced by PSP2.

                    The girl will not be discouraged; her star sign will be her earth sign.
                    She wants to be an actress.
                    As her present she could choose between Julia Roberts and Robert Wilson.
                    Sorry Bob, she chose the first.

                    And tomorrow it will take place – expecting that tomorrow it also will happen.

                    You can imagine a merry-go-round with little coaches, say the kind that is familiar from the old country.

                    It is 4 o'clock at night and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in a bankrupt playground.

                    The eyes behind the clown masks, worn by the horses, are creepy because they look so real.
                    Could this be because of the tears that flow unnoticeably?  



                    5 o'clock at night 
                    It seems to me that every parental image has mythical proportions.

                    Every mother image and every father image.
                    As if the blood of the tried human is not warm enough.
                    As if the sweat of the tested human is not fragrant enough.

                    I thought to give this chilly day a summery flavor.
                    And I think I succeeded, by wearing this yellow blouse and this orange cardigan.

                    Because I experienced how it feels to get my abnormal normal affirmed, 
                    I did not become the well-adjusted monster I no doubt would have become 
                    if I had not experienced how it feels to get my abnormal normal affirmed.

                    You can imagine a syndicate of well-adjusted monsters, say the sixteen-plus ones.
                    The framed diploma hangs on the wall, 
                    the first bank statements with the legally solid signature have been delivered to the accountant.
                    The name in the signature is barely legible, but the balance is impressive.

                    It is 5 o'clock at night and the counsellor – graying at the temples – 
                    toasts with his youngest client to tomorrow's fortunes.
                    There is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but between people who trust each other with their futures.

                    And should  tears flow they will be turned into silver right away.



                    6 o'clock in the morning 
                    Such boldness.
                    Look at it with only a little bit of logic and you see that the extremes extend to all sides.
                    It must have been many changes that I missed.

                    Where can I lie limitlessly with my Precious without first having to check myself out? 
                    The tail Statistics as pictured in Appendix III of the Great Mentality Book is due to its indistinctness very suggestive, 
                    you will have to admit.

                    You can imagine a computer, giga small, say invisible.

                    It is 6 o'clock in the morning and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in an extrasensory order.

                    The tears flow and unnoticeably the day takes over the night.



                    7 o'clock in the morning 
                    The sideshow has as little to do with the main event 
                    as the good with the bad, 
                    as the revocable with the irrevocable, 
                    as the light with the heavy.

                    For both presentations Hikalaia has been able to get free tickets and incognito she attends 
                    one – the sideshow, which tickles her heart muscle – 
                    as well as half of the other – the main event, which tickles her laughing muscles.

                    You can imagine a cradle with letters, say Japanese.
                    Above each letter there is a little flag with on it an image of an unidentified fetus.
                    The letters speak to those among us for whom being active means listening to the distance.
                    The little flags to those for whom death never is the effect but always the cause.

                    It is 7 o'clock in the morning and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found 
                    but in someone who recognizes what has not previously been recognized.

                    All the tears of yesterday and today have been shed 
                    and tomorrow isn't tomorrow any longer, 
                    for all fears have shriveled.



                    8 o'clock in the morning 
                    Yes there are still areas, where those without money have the advantage.
                    And those who are without a name? 
                    Ah, they have an enviable head start.

                    If you have a past like mine then you know the value of undefined goods, 
                    as you know that there is no end to cheating with expiration dates 
                    and that you have to watch out, once there is flaunting of exact data.
  
                    You can imagine a journey without destination, say in your bed.
                    Within three minutes the fantasy of two minutes has expanded to a fantasy of one year.
                    Where it then bumps up against, brings it to a stop.

                    Another 10 seconds and it will be 8 o'clock in the morning 
                    and together with the fantasy the tears have evaporated without leaving a trace.
                    Whereafter there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found 
                    but in the aftermath of a catastrophe.



                    9 o'clock before noon 
                    To your veiled question my answer is an unqualified yes: 
                    there is one song that, breaking across all catagories, is the song of humankind.
                    An enlightened song, so almost completely relieved of the burden of aggravating music, 
                    just as the Greek poet has indicated when he was forty and two years of age.

                    Whether worldwide there can be found thirty and four politicians who could recite 
                    the poem of thirty and four lines I refer to here, you ask?  
                    To this my answer is – to my regret and so a less unqualified ­– no. Unfortunately.
                    Despite the pretention of ruling life, politicians rule a business.
                    Compare their salaries to the salary of someone who rules life 
                    and you will have to affirm my observation.

                    When the notion of what life is about is completely lost, 
                    those who were born to rule life are not in a profitable position.

                    And also to this questioning expression my anwer is an unqualified yes: 
                    there are those who are born just to rule life.

                    You can imagine a struggle in the summer, say between life and death.

                    It is 9 o'clock before noon and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in the moment 
                    in which death won, but life is not defeated.

                    The tears that flow are new, seal a covenant and are stronger than the strongest promise.



                    10 o'clock before noon 
                    The new members of the syndicate have conceived the plan to revolt.
                    The new members of the syndicate distinguish themselves from the old members by being only second generation.

                    They will revolt because their complaint, 
                    that the old members refuse to be in line with time, 
                    was not met with even the slightest response.
                    Not the content of the complaint, 
                    but the fact of the complaint.

                    Tempers boiled.
                    For a few days there was intense electronic communication, 
                    and the form of the protest emerged.

                    Oh well, time.

                    You can imagine a tree on a patio, say a linden tree.

                    It is 10 o'clock before noon 
                    and thousend and one branches write a sign 
                    in which thousend and one graduates mirror themselves.
                    There is a quietude that is nowhere to be found 
                    but in listening to sounds one does not understand.

                    And oh well, the bittersweet tears.



                    11 o'clock before noon 
                    The object – chosen with the utmost care – has been placed with the premeditated intention 
                    that a ghost can make a home in it.
                    And naturally this happens.
                    And naturally it is a ghost who considerably brightens up the life of the living person.
                    Oi-joi-joi the conversations that go on here.

                    You can imagine a delight, secret, say 123 times 123 seasons old.

                    It is 11 o'clock before noon, 
                    the wind finds your window open and surprises you with a fragrance 
                    that later you will remember as the scent of the sea south of the Southern Sea.
                    And this memory offers you a quietude 
                    that is at your disposal at any place and at any time.



                    12 o'clock noon 
                    Where I come from is, if I am not mistaken, only a few doors away from where you come from.
                    So I assume that the following will not sound too unfamiliar: 
                    the road from my house to your house is exactly as long as the road from your house to my house.
                    Yes, does it sound familiar? 
                    Or how about this one: 
                    gathered wood does not put the fire out.
                    Aha! 
                    Is not now the time for the pitcher to go to the well?

                    Accomplished amateurs are not eager to pass on the helm.
                    Why would they? 
                    Their feet know the patterns up to the finest details 
                    and in the most crammed of ways they execute them.

                    As long as they are entertaining and wash themselves regulary, 
                    it are the accomplished professionals who do not bore me easily.
                    Even if they have barely any teeth left, 
                    in my house they are welcome.

                    O that feels good, to be able to talk about my house.

                    You can imagine a happiness, giga big, say five trillion bytes.

                    Soon the sun will reach the zenith 
                    and anyone who has not made preparations will scorch.



                    1 o'clock in the afternoon 
                    As long as one can recall, the name of the mountain has been the Scales; 
                    a name derived from a rock formation, that might be found on top of it.
                    I use the word might, 
                    because this rock formation has been sought by many and visited by few; 
                    all testimonies spring from tradition 
                    and neither satellite nor plane have been able 
                    to deliver photographic evidence of its material existance.

                    Nevertheless, in the settlement 
                    at the foot of the path leading up, 
                    numerous images are for sale that find eager buyers.
                    As do the piles of dream reports, 
                    in which the mountain takes a central place 
                    and in which tales are told of miraculous wish fulfillments.

                    You can imagine a ringworm, say a bloodsucker.

                    It is 1 o'clock in the afternoon 
                    and the wet tracks appear to produce a buzzing sound.
                    Quietude takes possession of my heart, 
                    two seconds, 
                    and then it exults as it never exulted before.



                    2 o'clock in the afternoon 
                    The front has fringes and the back is bare.

                    What swims underneath gives an impression of being hyperactive, 
                    but this impression is deceptive; 
                    in a millisecond it can slow down to a speed 
                    that defies the power of perception of any trained eye.

                    You can imagine a street in West Berlin, say in 2005.

                    It is 2 o'clock in the afternoon and there is a quietude that is nowhere to be found but in a scorched city.

                    The tears flow without boundaries. Or is this impression deceptive as well?  




© mc 2005-2014





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