And what of the plant?

Tommorow, I’ll get up early.
Do dozens of push-ups.
Nothing like an excercise to start the day.
Put some water on the stove, since I like coffee, and I like making it.
Defecate most likely.
Stand over the sink with the intention of washing my teeth, eyes pointed towards the mirror.
Forget to wash my teeth after indending to.
Keep staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Breath shallowly.
Watch my feet as I climb up and up the stairs, and up the stairwell, and up the stairs.
Sit on the edge of the roof.
Gently push myself of.
Think of how I forgot to turn the stove off.
Think of past love.

James

The Earth was here approximately when James died. All of science cannot tell us it was here precisely, nor would we want for it to tell us so, or to tell us anything else with dead precision implied, for it would mean our world was merely a map of our world, in the manner in which Miranda (who ironically never existed) described it so many imaginary years ago. And not much can be said (even with the optimism of claiming anything can be said about a certain something) about a life of a man tracking himself on a map, tracking himself on a map, tracking himself on a map, and so on. But, for all the intents and purposes which the human mind strives, and with some of the rigor and strictness that we can imagine adhering to a word, the Earth was here, and something can be said about it.

In deep darkness so laid James, hardly peacefully, in this spot, years ago. It can be argued, of course, to a great extent about the depth of the darkness in which James laid, giving that a hospital bed is rarely a place desired to be left completely in dark, even if it was night, especially with a patient in it, and especially that patient being James. Then again, in the fervor of impending death, of which our James was more than certainly aware, having called for Nora and Giorgio only minutes before passing, a man is sure to be devoured on some level by a darkness unambiguous at least – strength of spirit is a quality often ascribed to men which are called great by a large number of other men, of which dear James surely was a prime example, but no amount of strength can protect a man from the utterly shattering injustice of nothingness. Even if we forget that the most prominent strength James’ spirit possesed was exactly the shameless weakness and the mortality of it.

And the Earth was here as he gazed into the wretched face of nothingness. We are, so to say, blessed to share the view with him. It must be concluded then that, even if the room in which James had laid was well lit, and even if he, in the last moments of his life, had found himself completely at ease, and owing to the incredible strength of his spirit had accepted his fate with calm, even then there is a darkness to account for, and it is a darkness most common. And surely it may be said that he was made as aware of it as we are, since we share the view. It is a darkness sketched by all the things unseen from this place, the benign but miserable vacuum of everything unmapped, of there never being a map, of the infinite distance between a self and another, the sadness of being alone. What if the last fifteen minutes of James’ life were spent in the dark which differs in nothing from the dark in which he spent all the other pointless minutes of his pointless life?

And it is here, perhaps, that James cried: „Nora!“

And it is here, perhaps, that James cried: „Giorgio!“

After heading for the somber bottom of a somber river for so many somber years, he cries the names, drowning in boring realization of what he least expected – just a bit more of the same, until it ends. And that joke, of a man unmapped, told by a man unmapped, is the light James has provided, like Prometheus, for himself, and for so many of us, others. It is the knowledge of a darkness, not one of lack of a lamplight, or one of nothingness, but one of somethingness. His cries were not cries of fear or regret, but ones of dumbfoundedness and naive joy, of sincere and simple love. ‘Tis a jest.

The Earth was here approximately when James died. Tommorow it might not be, and if not tommorow some other day for sure. The view from here might change, or it might not, but if I may speak finally for myself, if I am asked in the end of my own story if I will die as a man unmapped, unsure, unrealized, I will be sure to answer:

yes I said yes I will Yes

because there are no words better suited for any ending, if even for a story as boring as mine.

 

Thanks James.

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Super Electric

Here’s to never finding yourself
on that elusive-as-ever, persistently imminent,
ethereally immediate field trip
you’d want to find yourself on after
listening to that old Switched On album.

How sweet the sound would have been,
and a thousand times over,
if your finger was that gun, indeed, or
if the album cover was a mirror, at least.
Imagine, riding a sweet, juicy bullet
on that sacred analog journey.
And aspire, a thousand times over.

Murray #2

          Desolate. That’s the word I’m looking for. Imploringly but discreetly, without unnecessarily drawing any of the already sparse attention. Sparsity is good. And, there, have one, for lack of a better one, for lack of a less broken one, one less similar to an island, or a prospect. Have one desolate. Just as it ceases, unfortunately, devoured by the increasingly loud clatter of some, presumably, rather expensive footsteps. Of which the price is? Several steps cost him a floor, and here he comes down now: „Clack, clack“, dreadily. Bestowing himself upon. Smilingly. Does he know? Oh, the footsteps, they come as cheap as they do now, and as decreasingly mild. And I thought loud was scary. Eyes, or? Surely. He knows.
„Muster Murray?“ says his hand greedily sticking out. The smile.
„The one. Dr. Weiss?“ I contact his right eye, and shake his hand. I’ll not smile. Strong, for stature.
„Precisely. Shall we head upstairs?“

Ok, I’ll smile. The shaking stops. Jesus, Mary and dreadful, of which I find only one in my daily life. Nightly I live not, and often I wonder if at all. Different kind of dread walking beside the clacks, same kind of desolate creeping up the stairs though. Oh, my. The years only cast more of a shadow on these corridors. They seemed less ominous while I was more naive. He talks small. I invent a smile? I invent a smile, just to ease in the. Whatever are all those keys for? The rattle and the clatter echo down the hallways I imagine, as we zero in on our, his, my rightful destination. Some other strangers. Highly educated, shaved. Some of them say hi. Lots of prescription glasses. 3rd floor. Office? He unlocks the door and offers me to sit, politely. I sit.

I sit and I get it, and I waste many years, as nervously as I did all of those before. Before I die, I live nightly for a short amount of time, not being able to sleep. The corridors don’t seem ominous anymore, but that’s just cause they’re boring, as Berryman said. I believe he said: „Corridors, friends, are boring.“ That was incidentaly my last thought.

Murray

„Can a memory be barefooted?“ asked Murray himself on one of those unmemorable winter evenings, sitting in a barely comfortable, ancient couch whose origin he could not guess for the life of him, even if he intended to do so.

„A memory barefooted drowning in freezing soil of red.“ he thought, trying to convey the exact point of a question, or more precisely – an idea, that he found himself struggled by, unintentionaly murmuring the sentence, only one of many that unpurposely popped in and out of existence in his mind. The words seemed heavy when spoken aloud, which bothered Murray, who wholeheartedly ached for simplicity in his now mature life, so naturaly he shook his head in mild surprisement and confusion. After a short stance, he then thought about a specific fig tree hanging over a sandy beach with some reeds on it during an another winter. This seemed to soothe him a little.

Visibly overwhelmed by the evening nonetheless, Murray had fallen asleep, with the look of confusion slowly faded away from his face in the process. Surely, even if he would appear uninteresting to anyone who would witness him in such a pose, his head leaned back, mouth slightly opened, and a pair of gigantic blinkers barely hanging on to his dull and unsymmetrical nose, he would at least appear exactly the way he is.

“ok.”

I feel like for my
farewells I should write just
an “ok.”
even though I could write
so much more.

And I guess it
pretty much sums up what
should be said and written,
in my comment of things
that are,
a suitable word to describe
the indifferent acceptance of
what happened to be.

Anything more is kitsch.
It serves no purpose.

Melancholy #1

“Please”, the echoes begged me,
“Would you please”, some echoes from a distant past,
“Kindly”, from long before and ’round the corner, they pleaded me most earnestly, the echoed footsteps of a past self,
“Remember”, but with each and every passing moment I kept forgetting more and more, with no intentions whatsoever, I’m not malicious, oh no, Heavens forbid for me to predend. Much too great and oh, so crucial, were the worries that troubled me at the time.

Concentrate – I could not.

Most perplexing.