Luthadel, City of Spires

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祝日 / Permanent Vacation

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@tablemannor
Luthadel, City of Spires
The smell flushed, bloomed, into my existence.
its there
Weighing a thousand stones on my chest, just breathe.
its there
Rising and falling, trying to rinse, but it sticks, clinging black oil.
im here
Slowly the tearing, ripping sensation, the clicking swirling eddies of air leave.
im here
Catching the mist, familiar pathways crumble, lost in the forest, caught by the flame.
but where
Lingers the ghosting image of me, of a task long gone, what was that.
but where
Does the end live, can I find him, his shack, on the cliffside, in the bog, the bottom, the lost.
there
The place, edge and bottom combine, the eerie intertwining space.
here
Not your time, is all he says, goes back inside, the door closes.
where
Is it, the little specter thinks, night finally falls.
I recently bought a Game Boy Advance and Im am a little confused at why the screen it has is so universally hated. I have had zero trouble finding places and lighting angles to which the colors are clear and text is readable. I actually think it has charm and the act of trying to find a nice spot with your back to a window or a light above and in front of you (or even the best is outside with the sky making the screen glow in gemlike tones) is a kind of nice little ritual. The other thing this does Is it MAKES playing outside under the sun or a tree the actual best place to play the thing, which I feel is an endearing feature of a handheld meant for kids. For me it is the best, because I enjoy a slight inconvenience like this; but even more, I like to spend relaxing time outside.
Im a ghost, Buster
Usually I'm quite debonair;
now I'm a ghost, Buster.
When I'm down at the pub, all the men stare.
Tis because I'm a ghost, Buster.
Damnable son in law had my head cut off.
without getting to know me first.
He really was after my money. But all I left,
was a haunt and a jape and a jest.
without//within
As I slink beneath the cracks in my consciousness
Submerged in the dark, the water fills my ears without sound
Flows over my chin
the lines of me blur, I forget where I end
And where it all begins
my head without a mind I float in, distantly
Without a body that is mine I sink, indistinctly
Wandering forever the infinite bliss, of nonexistence
Steps tailing in an indefinite trail along the tightrope
I am the knot, tied between body and mind
I fall without a body that is mine
Off
I drift off
Well below the fog
Who is there but me to exist as me
Being of me, shaped by my hand, and intrinsically
The fall is fleeting, the treatise is seeing
inescapably the future of me
being me being me
Being me
Its not me
Far below the fault line im on
Course corrected train of thought
Derailed in the mist
And the compartmentalized thing living
always breathing from the caboose
Finds its way from the trappings of that
Cursed caged wagon, its loose to the jungles of me
The wiry beast free to clamber through the hills and the cliffs
Rich with the decomposed bodies
In the shapeless spaces from my limbs
to the constituent body of root forming my soul
Folding, roiling in the soil my mind occupies
Of things forgotten
The water floods my nose, its pincers take hold my sinuses
The bliss washes off easily and I am again, just a body
So umm… why?
Why do some days feel so special, the ones where every thought feels refreshing, and I could dream up an entire book in an afternoon. When rhyming is so effortless every sentence is tightly wound in interconnections. Days that linger in my memory, days that are actually days and break from the cast of night applied by blackout curtains.
It makes every other day seem like an
Incoherent reflection. In the puddle, being slurped up by a storm drain
Ginger Root is a flippantly epic group of performance artists. Not only do they make the heckin’ most headbashingly chill music. But the world building surrounding that music is so utterly bone shatteringly intruiging. I love the aesthetic of some city slicking city popper, driving a taxi while sipping a fizzy ginger soda-pop in the 1980’s.
Wow that show was really cool and fun. I loved when he drank the water, yrah. And the opening performance being a talent show because the opener they booked had other commitments. And the replacement opener didn’t show up. The minions 2 essay was silly and Mr. Buca Di Beppos himself sang karaoke. I loved the part when they played mahjong room and every other song they played; Loretta of course, fly too, city slicker (with the long winder and wonderful spiel about imagining your just getting off work and you go home make some food and chill out for a bit after a long day so you can do it again the next day) loneliness, nisemono, and the anime intro mashup was cool (it went Bebop to - One Piece - Sailor Moon - Evangelion) Karaoke, and all the other songs that I don’t remember what ones.
Even though we didn’t have the best view it was wonderfull and bearably loud standing on a bench in the late autumn chill getting the occasional dribble of condensed sky steadily trickling onto our heads outside the wide open garage doors of Kilby Court.
Then after the show I wanted a few pictures in front of the stage so I had my Mom take some. (I was signing to her) the cameraman kept asking me about taking pictures and maybe I misunderstood his signing a bit cuz he kept asking me about it, but it was cool to meet someone who can sign. Then a bit later he told me about the music video B4 and that it was in sign so I watched it and love it so much.
Well I guess that’s all I have to say about that so,
Stay…
City
Have I lost the mind I once possessed?
The bitter ends compound on the ground floor brain stem
As well as falling to the bottom of my cup
Flushed down with the hot wash
Wring out my tongue
Ritual burning
Pour
And drink
The blank stare of existence starving me
My grumbling stomach pangs for an existential subsistence
That never seems to fill my cup.
More than halfway with the plain white, lifeless almond milk I drink
Palm damp in the cold sweat of my plastic cup
It’s the unquavering neutral expression,
Sharing the non-dairy galactic space between my face
And yours
So I just watched a talk by John Green, the one at Kenyon. It was a really great talk even though I’ve already forgotten most of it (besides the story about the fleece vest.) despite finishing the video barely two minutes ago. While watching i felt inspired and like things made sense but that seems to be a trick of the author. I now know less than when i started, not because there was anything taken. But because now that Ive been guided down, seen a little deeper into the well of conscious thought. I can feel more clearly the aching of the hole in my side, the bandage needs redressing and the lack of my own knowledge is again painfully there. Maybe I avoid that feeling, idk. At this point it feels like a mantra
“I know nothing about anything”
Everyone I look up to seems to have lived more than me, they are wiser for it. Maybe thats why I look up to them, because they have faced different parts of the mountain and they have triumphed through the tough climb. Another thing John talked about was that we all try to distract from the dull ache that is always in the background. I don’t want to escape, I want to feel it.
Is that how great things make me feel? Lacking, unwise, stupid.
“I know nothing about anything”
Surely it has to be somewhere inside my now, right? If i feel like this there was obviously an effect.
“I know nothing about anything”
People like that make me feel as though i have been looking for gold blindly, digging with a baseball
“I know nothing about anything”
I embody the statement.
“I know nothing about anything”
I am nothing
“I know nothing about anything”
Just a blip
“I know nothing about anything”
On a speck of dust held within one pinprick of light poked in the black paper backdrop in the play that is unfolding on a cosmic stage.
To be edited...
Edit; never mind I lost it
EmptyHead
Huddled up in a blanket
I lay here in my bed
In the basement of depression
My heart beats but empty head
A room that's made of pillows
The walls painted red
There's a door without a handle
To this room I am condemned
I sit down and feel so empty
I lay to rest this empty head
Empty head, empty head, empty head
I believe that I'm escaping
But it's getting very cold
Outside to get some fresh air
Though my lungs already full
I breathe deep but can't enjoy it
all my senses are so dull.
As a forest grows around me
I feel lost and all alone.
There is fire all around me
But I'm still so very cold.