#creativie

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Creativity begins with an idea, then someone sets out to put the design to paper, from there, they “play” at making it work, how many times, and what number of templates were done before they got the finished product they wanted.  We see the final product, and go… WOW….  Our lives are constantly being blessed because someone came up with an idea, and by themselves or with collaboration,  they…

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The Dancing [900]

Sorry for subjecting anyone to this, but the stream of consciousness is unavoidably an exercise in poetic unravelling.

So there was a bit of dancing in paires and lines and straight up in circles like there had been such long eleven spectrums ago and just like there might be with some wonderful experience of reliving eleven some years later. It was as if the fallen trees and birthday cakes half-baked by me now unable to bake had returned to the 7 year ground freshly rooted in lone childhood and the glee of mistakes. This was before mistakes became the missing piece of puzzles and before I could sit at the table and speak to my mother about soulmates even if she had not found one and even if I was only to lose one and in some illusion thought myself above the nostalgia and had gone on to bake a cake that was half burnt. But this was the calm grey dancing of the leaves past some dry rain-flecked window as the billboards went past and the signs were only half lit up and they said DANC-THIS-WA- but why would the Church need well lit neon anyway when to know Christ was to have others know about Christ. And I was spinning a hand at this free association business only to have it bring up these thoughts of dancing in time but now it was bringing up the stuttering dances swayed to in very dim light because that is all that I knew how to associate anymore. Light that was rather dark and what was I supposed to do remembering the scent of spice and romance so strikingly familiar and now slipped from the grasp of this tight embrace in which there was comfort dependent on the knowledge that that scent was still there that skill was still soft and that we were still dancing. And somehow it will always return to this and how am I supposed to fill an entire page with poetry when all you are is poetry and you could hardly fill up a hand anymore? Look, I gave it a good hard try but then I woke up and we had been dancing in that dream just like I had imagined it in Calcutta lamplight even when I said that I did not want to dance and I am sorry that I can’t do things without some structure and that all you are is some freewheeling star through my galaxy burning it up with this ridiculous audacity that assumes every right as though it did not just scald the very skin of life among this great sky space. And even if the writing was getting crowded like it could not handle the lack of air in which to roam only like the lost image of one’s mind, things continued to burst into flame with great painful enthusiasm.

Tē amō is the way they said it in Latin but I don’t know if they ever danced in Latin. Certainly the words dance around enough but words are like that more sometimes skittering around on the ice like a few fawns and attempting to regain their dignity, some dignity they have yet to achieve and “are we still talking about words?” I was asking myself looking up at those gorgeous painted faces moving like blurs across this great beautiful expanse of possibility known as the stage. It was better than the man on the side of the street hiding inside his jacket with a cigarette jutting out like some proof of blood. It was better than the man on tv who only wanted to be a man on tv. It was better, I thought, than the pulling of an alien hand wanting to help you so eagerly but so hated so irritating to feel on a body that could not take but one grasp. It was better than dancing even when that is all one could remember how to do even though they could not remember ever having learn, than yelling, in fury, to be left alone amongst the concrete that was just as immovable and felt more like a kindred body than some well wishing hand that could not have understood the tears that came from having a shot too fast and run away to be erased in the throbbing beat of a unanimous heart cast in ecstatic lust ecstatic light.

But I was indeed trying to remember the illusion of some pathetic simple time though no time was simple when hardly anything was but still I was fond of bones especially ones that angled themselves to highlight just the right places on a face that one perpetually sees aglow and then the bones that caused one to spring up from a hot bed on a summer night because they were hurting parts of your body which did not mind though it was all becoming blathering empty shit in the darkness faster and faster and faster.

The night dances were the most enjoyable and even in their madness far more sensible than any other dance had been and I was looking to take up salsa but for that also you needed pairs and pairs come in two and two is a number that is so large you would hardly remember it came after one and before a whole eternity.

And so I sat down and dwelled upon eleven ages past instead, into some time of dancing and sickness and a wonderful lack of care. 

[pdrennan]

ffuuuuu

ian anderson of jethro tull decided to play the flute and not primarily become a guitarist because he thought he'd never be as good as eric clapton. hmmm. perhaps i'll never be the songwriter ian anderson will be, but must make some other musical venture. lol jk, me and my acoustic guitar will spin lyrical journeys backed with the sweetest melodies, relentlessly brilliant drums, and a string quartet of sexy irish ladies i fuck after every show three times.