Sunday, April 15, 2007

milk

I think. I think so many things. Options are explored. conclusions are deduced. Memories are under constant scrutiny. Details, obsessive attention to details. History is placed under revision. And with all that hustle in my head, i can only think of one thing to say 'i wish i had brought my jacket...'.


Its 7am on a Sunday. I walk up to get milk to go with my coffee. I've been up at least since 6. While it was hardly my fault to wake at such an early hour, i nag myself with the thought that i have still sinned, i should of stayed in bed... and on the lords day none the less.

Too many thoughts. Self doubt - questioned truth. Desires & yearnings. Anger & spite. Existential dilemmas. Emotional roller coaster rides that just continue on, round & round, up & down, and round again.

I acknowledge that none of this may truly matter. Thought is not action. Still that does not deny the pivitol nature of the situation for me. Its an anxious state of being. Engulfed by the stream of conciousness. Compulsively thinking things apart, looking for some hidden meanings in the glyphs. Looking through the symbol to find the symbolic, when in fact there was never any meaning to begin with.

A excess of thought is a blessing & curse. My pharmakon of sorts. That elusive thing which is both poisson & cure. Its that cup of coffee that awaits me at home, now i have milk.

I temper the cure/curse by partaking in vice. 'Just a little coffee to clear my head' i tell myself. Little vices spark my life. I start to read alot (think Kundera & other random authors pullled down from the books on my shelf). I drink a little too much (think cask wine, by the cask). I go out late at night (think day club). Then i refuse to go out at all. I ride my bike (to botany to read Kundera under the trees by the beach, and back again).

Thank god i dont smoke anymore!

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These vices offer more than a intermission. Each begins a challenge to the anxious travel through a race. Zeno's paradox. A cunning trap. It forces a step. the intermission defines a distance, a unit, a duration. A kind of symbolic tripping up? Each new vice & vices repeated divide the anxiety's duration. A forfeit is given...

And i stop in the road. Milk in carton in hand. Its 7:05am. There is a blue wolf before me. It is smiles & sits & watches me. I pat it, consider taking it home, but deduce that someone most likely owns the well groomed beast. Its a symbolic event. It is not a true wolf, rather an Akita (just a wolf-ish dog). Neither is it blue, only blond. But of course in Croatian the word for blue & blond is the same (just a semantic slip). I begin to see behind the glyph. I wonder about it with half a smile & half a tear on my face...

An angel perhaps?

1 comment:

rapunzel.emma said...

I have saved this piece on my hard-drive. It is a perfect example of your private lyrical beauty - the unique way you see the world - the frail and almost impossible contradictions of your masculinity, and your ethnicity.

Of course, you make it seem so effortless, as if all your parts are in perfect harmony, and the struggle is only ever momentary.

Well done on another fantastic piece of writing... its honesty is bewitching.

e