cycle
we're not kids anymore.

if i look back, i am lost
Today's Document

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

Andulka
Jules of Nature

pixel skylines
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

oozey mess
Cosmic Funnies
NASA

izzy's playlists!
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
h
YOU ARE THE REASON
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
almost home

roma★
sheepfilms

seen from Bosnia & Herzegovina

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Belgium

seen from Italy
seen from Nigeria
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Germany
@prismmirrorlens
cycle
from Moebius and Alejandro Jodorowsky’s Le Coeur Courronée (Madwoman of the Sacred Heart)
Cruise
The night is buzzing and the lights on the canal are bright as diamonds; he can't remember taking any pills but he must have, two at least if he's gapping, and there's a hole in his memory where the past several hours should be. Holes in his head, no doubt, but there's the black, compact power of his Vision Mark 1 beneath him and the night in every direction stretching in endless coils. He laughs; he is ready, more than ready, and his hands are tight on the throttle. Aida is next to him, small body sleek across a red Mark 2, and Gin (Sword AX, black), Maj (Vision Mark 1, yellow) and Lukas (Rise 100x, green), all helmeted, ready, engines revving, thrumming like struck heart strings, like half suppressed desire. He doesn't know which of them started (it might have been him), but it's started, the space under the highway falling away and the canal receding in his mirrors; Aida pulls ahead, tail light streaming, first to the road and then it's Maj and Gin and Lukas (he lets them go, savoring it, their wheels silver black blurs, bodies nearly fused to their machines), the sound carrying him as much as his bike, buzz saws ripping through the night. They lean into a curve and ascend the concrete ramp, the city revealed by degrees over the rail until all at once the highway spreads out in front of them, orange in the glare of towering lamp posts, a river of pavement with no end in sight. He accelerates to catch up with Aida; lamps steak the faceplate she tilts in his direction, and then she is hurtling forward, head down, cruising. Gin passes him and he watches the red, knife sharp trailing of their lights, turns again to the skyline, the windows whipping past, a helicopter running parallel over the roofs of the towers, its search light vividly seeking. Aida has her arms upraised, for an instant, and he imagines her brief, girlish laugh as she does this. Gin swerves to the left, edging the median. They pass a car, a heavy, lumbering block, and then another and another and another, darting between them, drifting in and out of the spaces that are always there, expanding and contacting, the road a neural net and the five of them synapses, firing. They cruise; the highway burns away and Aida takes the parade exit, the four of them following in her wake. The Avenue of Parades stretches on and up, stately granite government buildings on either side cut by black tree limbs, statues of important men running at intervals in the strip of grass between the lanes. They pass one intersection, and another, but at the third a light stops them; he pulls next to Aida and the others fall into a neat line to his right. They exchange no glances. His bike is very hot between his thighs; he knows they will be going for hours.
Cicada
Heat lines wavered over the pavement. The old man watched them from the shade of the station wall. He reached for the bottle of tea next to him; it was half empty, and by now quite warm. He drank sparingly, and replaced the cap with studied precision.
He had been there since noon. He had nowhere to go, and no plans other than at some point to make his way up the steps and into the park. When it cooled off a little he would do this, but for now he was content.
Living this way on the street for many years, he had developed a relationship with time; he asked nothing from it, save that it pass, and so it did, indivisible and benign. His actions (waking, moving with his small cart of possessions to the water's edge or to this wall by the station, falling asleep) could bookend segments of time, but he did not count the hours. There was no need.
He cleared his throat and spat. Overhead, a train rumbled onto the platform. He watched as a few people left from the exit nearest to him. One, a young woman, carried an ornate, cream-coloured parasol, complete with lace trim. Her shoulders were wrapped in a plastic shawl, and she stumbled in her heeled shoes, as if she'd never worn such things before. Carefully, she rounded the corner and disappeared.
The old man no longer made up stories about the people he saw; he never gave them names or tried to guess what they did for a living. They were like clouds passing to him now, interesting in their forms, but remote, drifting effortlessly across a distant plane. It had been different when he was younger. The stories he told himself had sustained him, helping to pass the time and to keep him from panicking, but he hadn't had an attack in years. He supposed it was a function of aging.
They told him at the center that he was a kind of success story, but he didn't believe it. There were no success stories for those who remained on the street, only momentary triumphs amid the long, slow defeat. Still, he knew they brought him up sometimes, as a model of self control. He didn't correct them; there was no reason to. They'd all learn it on their own, or they never would.
Somewhere a cicada began to cry. The sound rose and fell, drowning out the old man's thoughts. He listened to it with his eyes closed. At length it fell silent.
Dual Audio
They'd already moved from the kitchen. The second bottle of wine was half finished. He sat on the floor with the two girls in front of him on the couch. A record was playing on the system, soft guitar melodies intermingling with almost inaudible vocals. Merit refilled her glass. Leidys had her eyes closed and was bobbing her head in time with the music. She was either drunk or tired, but not both, because she was still upright. He studied her profile and the line of her leg, her arms draped around her knee. The music ended. He set his wine glass on the table. "What's next?" he asked. "I liked that vibe," Merit said. "Very chill. Let's keep that going." A little unsteady (he had always been a cheap drunk), he opened the cabinet under the sound system and flipped through the stack of records. He knew what he was looking for but it took him a minute to find it. This was a 7" single, the cover of which showed a young woman seated in the middle of a deserted road. He took the record from its sleeve and carefully set it on the turntable. The needle fell into place. There was a melancholy fall of chimes, and the strumming of a lone guitar; a man's voice, deep and sad, drawing out each syllable in a slow lament. "What language is this?" Merit asked. "I don't know," he told her. "One of the low continent dialects I think. I can't read the album notes." "Where did you find this one?" "You know Appin Street Station? On the ochre line. There's a little record shop there I love. They get all this random stuff shipped in from buyers overseas. A lot of it is garbage, but every now and then there's something special." He leaned back and his head connected with the sound system, hitting the button that controlled the playback speed. The song's tempo picked up, and the man's voice became a woman's; she sang high and heartfelt, the guitar rising with her, and it became clear they were listening to something entirely new. "Wait...," he said, rubbing his head. This made no sense; he pressed the button again. Instantly the guitar slowed down and the man's voice returned. Leidys opened her eyes. "That's trippy," she said. "Does it work with other albums?" "It shouldn't work at all," he muttered. "Maybe they recorded two separate tracks?" "No, there's only one recording, we're just playing it at different speeds." He got out another album and tried the same thing, but only succeeded in speeding up the vocals, not in changing them. He went back to the first track again; there was no mistaking it: two versions of the same song, but at different speeds performed either by a man or a woman. "That's really wild," Merit said. "That's a schism in space time right there." "Yeah," he muttered. He could see they were getting bored, so he changed the album and let the subject drop. When all the wine was finished Merit thanked them and they saw her out. Leidys went to bed, but he wasn't tired. To keep from bothering her, he wore headphones as he played the track again, at both speeds, listening to a man with a woman concealed in his voice, or a woman with a man trapped in hers. Hours later he was still there. A schism, Merit had called it. He had no better word for it than that.
A Window
She has curled her knees beneath her chin. Her eyes are lined in dark pools of smudged mascara. Expressionless, she stares through the balcony's glass partition. Across the street a light is switched on in the window of an apartment. The girl's brow tightens.
A man is standing at the window. From this distance, the girl cannot see his face, but he is tall, and very thin. She guesses he is around thirty years old.
Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, the man presses his hands to the glass. The girl imagines he can see her the way she can see him. She does not wave, or make any other sign, but some life has returned to her face.
The man turns, and removes himself from the window. The room behind him is sparse; from where she sits the girl can make out no furniture. It looks empty, as if it was just built.
A moment later the man reappears. Next to him is a girl. She is small, with brown hair cut short around her face. Dark pools surround her eyes. On the balcony the girl stiffens; the man has his long fingers around the girl's throat; her mouth forms a small, black hole. No sound crosses the space between them, but to the girl on the balcony the scream is as loud as if it came from her own throat.
Haiku (16/5/2016)
Grimy, 70s - style social satire: Hiddleston's 'High Rise.'
Haiku (14/5/2016)
A painful boredom, almost a despair, wells up when I am shopping.
Haiku (25/4/2016)
The pain in her back, which they operated for, has returned today.
Haiku (24/4/2016)
Within raging storms, the confusion of the heart, we are all floating.
Sonnet no. 5 (Highway 16)
A highway, and on either side, the night. No movement issues to disturb this place, but standing there, encased in winter light, is a figure, a girl without a face. It was taken from her, cut clean away. All that remains now is a barren void, a featureless surface, smoother than clay, the seat of her self forever destroyed. Headlights approach; the driver does not slow. He sees the girl, like he saw the others, dozens of them, faceless, standing in snow, all stolen sisters, daughters, and mothers. Each bound in silence, as if to a chain, the cold links of a community's pain.
Haiku (23/4/2016)
"I don't think I'm much. I go to work. Pay my bills. I try to get by."
Haiku (22/4/2016)
"So, reality. You will struggle all your life and never name it."
Haiku (26/2/2016)
To compose each thought in seventeen syllables; a year of haiku.
Haiku (25/2/2016)
The subway stopped dead halfway along the platform; people are screaming.
Haiku (24/2/2016)
As a wave, breaking, meets the land and then retreats, so is our life.
Haiku (23/2/2016)
I have walked for years, seen the world's naked truth, and have lost myself.