Fertilizer

Mood: You’re always working, they said. Come out with us – let’s have some fun.

Rain drop.

I am just a moment that has been suspended in freefall for so long that I have lost all concept of time, motion and circumstance. All that I know is I was, is and currently am – as I always have been.

Now.

Is god euphoria? Her shrieks can be heard by those who would listen, said the preacher. Her diaper is wet, said the teacher. Her fury is pure, said the mother. She doesn’t exist, said the searcher. I kept dancing to the music.

Growing the collective concious is harder than it looks. The ground rarely takes to the seed properly and a great deal of the crop is often lost. Many have blamed it on parched land – since the invasion the land has been void of affect. A vital mineral for the growth of consciousness. The diapers, a particular part on the leaf, get wet. This is the first sign of a degrading crop. Other signs are harder to tell. The shrieks of a dying concious can only be heard by a keen ear.

This has been so hard to do that many have begun to say that it is impossible to grow – that pure fury demands too much from the unyielding ground. For many years, this was impossible to solve – until a small team of scientists decided to dig deep – increase the nutrients in the ground.

I stumbled accross their hole and I fell.

I am still falling.

Drop top.

X Marked the Spot

Mood: You have an old dvd somewhere  – you’re sure you do. So you spend the entire day cleaning your dvd collection to find it (it was in the wrong case) (you have a large dvd collection). It’s a movie you loved back in the day, but you loved the DVD most because it had the director’s cut and deleted scenes and everything. You make yourself a good meal and pop it into the player. It plays the first three seconds of the movie and freezes. You take it out wipe it and play it again. Still doesn’t work. So now you have all this evening left.

 

Any fool who knows that killing a dream is a delicate affair – and horribly violent. So there are two options:

  1. Don’t kill your dream.
  2. If you must kill your dream, make sure it dies.

Burying dreams under the fence behind the shop has never been a good idea. Once you’ve waited for the neighbour’s children discovering that their privates can actually be semi public, you’ll have to deal with simba. Still, even if you wait out teen lust and a barkless bite, you still won’t be done with the dream forever.

You might try and forget about it, but as long as the dream remains buried you will have a path out of the omelas. And as long as you have a way out you will never be able to settle in – because you never wanted to be there in the first place.

And you know this.

You know this because you buried your fucking dream. Now, like a hearbeat in quantam entanglement with your own, it beats.

*******

Do teenage dreams rebel?

(I write dreams but I am actually asking about dreams)

Does a dream, on achieving a loose grasp of the mechanisms that affect its survival, decide that it can navigate on its own?

Have you seen dreams wandering the streets, culture shocked and hungry? What does a fully grown dream look like?

 

*****

 

Perhaps, she said, the problem is not that there is a problem but there’s the lingering persistence of a problem that once was. You were not okay, but now you are but because you are used to not being okay you navigate the world like you’re not okay but you are – but because of how you navigate it confirms your truth which is that you are not okay. Which is okay, except it’s not.

 

That’s how she said it too – and with as little punctuation.

By the time you were piecing it together you had already taken advice from every fool.

And there’s very little ways to be okay (or not) when two wounded hearts are pounding blood through your ears.

 

*****

You remember when their parents started complaining. They had heard whispers of an alley in the neighbourhood where the teens went when they wanted to understand each other better. It was not going to last that long anyway. It’s hard for an ambiguous group of teens to keep a secret. And besides, everyone could smell what they were smoking – so it was silly both ways.

“You’ve not been hanging out behind that shop have you?”

Some questions are like riddles with their answers not being in the answer themselves but in how one formulates their answer. You answered wrong – but you only knew about it because you had researched extensively before you buried your dream. Not that you had no interest in the other activities but there were more discreet ways to find out. Or that’s what you told yourself.

But it did make for an excellent hiding point. Two points of entry, so options if cornered. A lot of undergrowth, which meant healthy enough ground. And a sewer right round the bend. This was important because adults are a lot less likely to be found around dirt than children. And, if one must bury a dream, it is best to do so away from an adult.

But you only remember them as complaining.

So you’re not necessarily shocked that they took down the shop – but it does bother you. Especially now as you stand there looking at the shiny new house that stands where the shop once stood. Off to its left a beautiful garden blocks of what use to be the entrance to the alley.

Only a child could think a shop can last forever – even landscapes are transient.

 

*****

Years later a child finds a strange object buried in the garden.

They feel a heartbeat linger.  

For my Next Trick

Mood: We all know that magic is not real. The Rambo bamboo boom boom guy on KBC had us convinced for a while, but as soon as we figured out you can tie handkerchiefs together, we were done. Still we kept watching. Not because we thought it was true – because we know it isn’t. But because the things we don’t know manifest in unexpected ways. And that’s exciting. Because we just want to chant Rambo, bambo boom and watch the impossible possible.

Take a sample group. Any group will do. The group I happened to find involved three geese, a professor of marine botany, two pencils, a bucket of water and oil extract of the milky way (125 ml, I hear it’s really cheap if you know where to look). Gather them around the idle wounds of history. Watch as they stew around where they are placed in the larger scheme of things. As the scars open their own scars. As the coal burns fires into their soul, further into themselves. Watch as they react differently to the same stimuli. Watch where they look, what they look for, how they find it and where they find it.

This, you think, means knowing more than the sample group. Perhaps a warning, as I came to learn, you will not be the least knowledgeable – but you won’t be the most either. But, being the gatherer, you will have spent more time around fire. As science has shown, one cannot observe without changing the experiment in certain ways. And even as we gather around the embers, we stoke them. And even as we gather around the embers we stoke them.

(who wins in the game of depth? The Marriana trench is 10,994 metres deep – many still call it home.)

After an adequate amount of time send the sample into the world. Watch as the excesses of their open histories burn those around them. Watch this burning stabilize the flame.

(brightest wicks burn fastest they always say – but surely everyone is just trying to make it to the end)

Watch as those they burn open their own wounds.

Watch as they wander in search of a good gathering.

Take a sample group.

Burns

Mood: To milk, sugar has always been a sign of turbulence to come. The violence of stainless still cutting through the surface tension and causing chaos. Unlike a tea bag, that often settles in slowly, infusing itself and absorbing culture – the violence of a teaspoon was the origin of the storm in a teacup (history they never teach us). It is hard to convince milk of the importance of sugar to a good cup of tea.

You know that
you carry their history.
But you also know
you don’t carry their scars.
And that, you hope,
will make all the difference.

You have no memory of ever being young. In your mind you have been consistent through all ages. As if somehow you have always been in there, knowing what is going on. Which is not to say that you have never listened to a story and thought “that was immature, wasn’t it?” Or that you have never seen pictures of yourself. In the inexact way of memory you remember all of these things – you just don’t ever remember being young.

In your mind, you have always been levelheaded.

Perhaps this is why this whole idea of youth is muddled to you. Like a place you know, in theory, but are still learning how to navigate. How to see yourself, not the way you are seen. Not to allow the way their eyes burn touch your skin and set you ablaze. After all, flames fan flames. And if you put two embers and fan the flame the result will always be ashes.

(no, there are no phoenixes in this story, only flames and wind)

Although you’d think one would remember fire.

Except if they’ve always been burning.

Except if they’ve always been burning.

They only noticed you because you were invisible.

You know how sometimes the only reason you get caught is because everything is so perfectly planned? Like how when every story adds up you begin to question whether that’s because it was though through deliberately? Or how you forget to put off the lights so often that your neighbours think you have a roommate? The problem with patterns then, becomes that they aren’t what we think that they are – are they?

But sometimes they are.

And because they sometimes are, then it’s difficult to ignore them. Does that person liking your posts mean they like you, or what you’re saying? Will united ever know what it is to be a mid table team again? Just how many times will billions of shillings be stolen before Kenya is a officially a corrupt state? Does the sun rise every morning on purpose, or does it snooze its alarm as often as I do? All valid questions to ask of a repeatedly occurring phenomenon. Which is to say we know for a fact that the person has been liking the posts. Or that united hasn’t had an idea of how to win a trophy since Ferguson left and so forth. What we don’t know is the possibilities that rise from these patterns. Which is to say, how these things manifest themselves is mostly mystery.

What, however, is apparent, is that these things exist.

Patterns are a naturally occurring phenomenon in nature. And you know this because the only real evolutionary advantages you have as a human being is opposable thumbs and the ability to recognize patterns. And because there are so many in nature it became easy for you to quickly adapt and locate yourself according to the situation.

But this, this is not nature.

And adapting and co-opting are very different things. The ever shifting nature of your co-option made you invisible. In constantly reading the patterns and adjusting yourself accordingly you lost sight of who you are. You, in many ways, became the act of adapting. You existed in a temporal state. Only the version of you that was allowed to exist in any space at any time existed.

And this is why you never go home isn’t it?

Do they know? Do they know that when you go home and sit with your thoughts you have no idea who you are? Do they know that you are only systematically looking through them for traces of where you left yourself?

And of course this is a self fulfilling prophecy.

In constantly changing to fit a mould you are never really sure which one is you – and which one isn’t. Now there is a simple answer to this. They are all you, for you are all these things at different times to all these different people. But even this isn’t the truth. Because you remember. You remember being all these things in these different ways and being centered in yourself.

And not constantly adjusting yourself.

While still maintaining some level of anonymity. A way to disappear without becoming invisible.

Because you knew that’s when you’d get noticed.

When did you realise that you could work against pattern? That with the right questions and pauses in the right places your pattern could be less apparent? Did it make you feel powerful? It must have, at least the first time. How they didn’t quite see you. How their eyes held questions. You could see it. You could literally see them trying to find the words to ask you. But you had made sure to keep even those out of their reach.

 

Secrets,

real or imagined,

rule the world.

 

But, because you were doing it – and you knew you were. They knew you knew. It’s impossible to observe without being observe. And as you saw so you were unseen. Always a question mark. Always a question mark. And another day comes, and the sun stays on time, and they still look at you with questions.

Rugs Needed

“My Freedom and I, we were live to be together.

Men live and die,

But a dream can live forever”

  • Lindsey Abudei

“But what do you know of the freedom that you seek?”

Freedom interrogations

Here’s the thing. After minding his business for longer than he needed to it was no longer about minding his business. And no one was really sure where the change at happened. After all, they had only looked away for a second – hadn’t they? And it wasn’t like there was no other thing to turn to. It wasn’t like there was no other way to ensure that the search – futile from the beginning – was brought to a non violent close.

Which was all that they were trying to do – create a non-violent close.

The problem, of course, comes with trying to end the big bang by calling parapet cleaners. And no matter how many workers you employ you will never be able to sweep stardust under the rug. Especially not if the rug you plan to use is an already dusty five by six that was bought at an expat sale for “I have privilege and I don’t need the money from this sale” price. There’s just not enough room.

So of course it was a little cramped.

In fact, it was so cramped that it became almost impossible for him to mind his business. After catching glance blows from all the fights for space, it quickly became important to create space of their own. And, being part of them, participation became prudent.

And besides, it was a little cramped.

But glance blows are designed to only bruise bystanders – and his freedom was yet to experience a full frontal attack.

Still, it was no longer about minding his business. Surely, at the very least, things were about to get interesting.

In the distance

a man placed

a phone call

“Yes, send me all the cleaners you can get.

 

Undreaming

I went

in search of dreams.

Instead I found nightmares

masquerading through the streets.

No one asked me to join the party.

 

What is this of the freedom that I seek? What is it, you ask, of the demons that I know, that I don’t know. That they too must also be seen as the emotional equivalents of 17 cycles, a sore throat and two drops of lemonade? Which is not, of course, to say that lemonade is the work of freedom but perhaps to imagine that art, like all things is about turning nightmares into dreams.

Turning nightmares into dreams.

It sounds like the thing of dreams, until nightmares. Which is sensible right? That nightmares, inevitably, are the stuff of dreams? That the very things that we work so hard to figure out are just evolutionary waves, washing away at the sands of time. Often as silently and soothingly as waves themselves do – if you give yourself a large enough perspective.

The problem, then becomes opening up a perspective large enough to diminish the problem at hand. But how big is the problem? And how large is the solution?

The problem with writing, it seems, is that everything that is written comes out sounding so crisp. So neat and tidy. Organised, neatly hidden between the words of any pages are often years of any real life. But are they worth digging into? I say this not because I think that many of the words above would be worth digging into but rather to ask – what does real life look like?

What does real life look like?

That’s what you’ve come looking for in the lines of a poem isn’t it?

A taste of something real.

Hejinian says that perhaps the work of art is to put us in complicity with things as they happen. I guess its anyone’s guess what we’re doing here really. Turning nightmares into dreams, putting us into complicity with reality, there are many theories. Generally, however, we agree that we are fucked. Artists, non artists, dancers, typists, singers, accountants, everybody agrees that we’re generally fucked.

In fact, we’re so royally fucked it’s kind of laughable isn’t it?

Like, no one’s even arguing about it anymore. Used to be there were some “we’re gonna be okay” guys. You know, the kind of guys who just felt like they had to say we’d be okay otherwise we’d not only be completely royally fucked, we’d also not know whether or not we’re going to be okay in this soon to come state of being fucked right? So now, beyond being royally fucked you have to sit and consider this douchebag’s behavior around how royally fucked you are and whether or not you are okay. Which you aren’t right?

Because you’re royally fucked. 

Sometimes we think

about coming up to breathe

and we hear the crash.

But that’s just the waves.

The waves don’t die.

 

But at the same time, you’re not. And that’s the thing. You’re another wave. And yes, you are going to crash. Hopelessly, probably and with reckless abandon, probably, and drop.

And even as you drop, you get smaller.

And the top gets farther.

Always allow yourself to fall

further.

 

Further.

 

Further.

 

Further.

 

Further.

 

Further.

 

At first, touch will be pain. Of course, to be experienced after the experience of having oneself to yourself will be a mess.

Allow the pain to seep in – it too has its purpose. It will stretch you as thin as you think you can ever be stretched.

Then comes the explosion. A pulse really. You can feel it now. The birth of a moment in space time.

You watch it spread

As it spreads it becomes everything that is in its path. At first you think this pulse is engulfing, destroying and there’s panic. But, in the end, it is only becoming what it isn’t. Slowly changing to fit the spaces that are being accorded to it.

And then another, behind you this time. Again it spreads.

And another.

And another.

As the pulses increase so do the waves. They violently crash into each other and the waters get more disturbed.

 

You’re frantic now. Having become accustomed to the stillness of solitude the pulses are an unwelcome disturbance. Worse still is that you can’t seem to figure out what is causing them and thus you have no idea how to stop them – the further you stretch yourself in search of stillness, the worse it gets.

 

The thing is, you too are a pulse – and you too are a wave. The more you become, the more the waves become you. Which means that a crash is not only a possibility – it is inevitable. So you reach back, inhale and head for the shore. And with each crash you dislodge more sand. With each crash more of the shore becomes the sea and more of the sea becomes the shore.

And so the dance between time and memory continues. And the dreamers keep crashing and remembering. Remembering that nightmares are only moments before the next…

crash.

 

Mine

And therein lies the lie.

That there is a form a knowledge, of possibility, of being, of doing, that is outside your reach. That there is a way to be that is not only available, but readily tailored to your needs. That somehow, to exist is not only to defy them, but to destine oneself to a life of never ending torture.

And this, as has been created, has formed of itself a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In the ways that stories create space for reality the prophecy has made room for itself.

In speaking as if spaces don’t exist the narrative has taken over room. Slowly eliminating spaces around it. Just like it has eaten and depleted physical resources, it has eaten and depleted mental and emotional resources. There is nothing left, there is nothing left, there is nothing left – they kept telling us this. And, in nothing being left, we took the only option we had.

 

Old paths

can only be trod upon

by those whose feet

have met time

and memory

and learned their dance.

Guilty feet

have got

no rhythm

Careless Whispers

 

But a monolithic world is about as interesting as waiting for the internet to come back. And freedom is nothing more but possibility. Imagine we are in a room. We have planned to stay in this room for the rest of the week. If a friend locks us in – have they taken away our freedom? Now imagine a thought. Singular. Independent. Imagine it alone in a void. Around it a sea of nothing. Now imagine this thought is you.

How does it feel?

 

Between the stones

There are souls

 

Make sure your feet are

Clean.

 

Now zoom out until you can see another thought slightly distant from the first.

Move out further.

And another.

And another.

Until all that is left is a sea of independent thoughts bobbing to the ebb and flow of consciousness. Tell me that there is a place in this sea that a thought can’t reach. Tell me that there’s a place, save for deliberate action to stop an idea, that an idea can’t be held.

And thus it is the lie.

 

That somehow it is not yours to take.

 

Weary fingers

can’t grip

fractured souls

 Broken nails

let sighs fall

into the dark.

 Slipping

 

You reach out your hand.

In Search of Words

What, then, is there left to say?

That somehow, amidst creating what seemed to be a path to the beginning that it will begin to implode? Or is it that to begin is not necessarily to understand that there is a step taken but perhaps to take that step. Or is it to say that in the midst of the chaos there was a bird perched daintily on a branch, its feathers glistening in the rays of the sun? That chaos, like all other forms of organized thinking, starts with an idea – and has no discernable end.

If not that then what?

What?

Show me the words.

Give me the vowels that I might mix them with consonants and find a way to quantify this constant – change.

Seventeen shillings, palmed by a boy at a shop, particular care given to the one shilling coins. So easily lost. So easily forgotten. Dropped.

Like a collection of knowledge put to a broken beat and sold for 99 cents on the iTunes store. Like a downloaded album, listened to once and forgotten. Like a song on replay, lyrics held close as if somehow they held the key to the secret of immortality. As if somehow living forever is not only a thing that is aspired to but is also available at the shop for 33 shillings.

As if the fifty bob note in your pocket is enough to buy you freedom – forever.

Freedom.

Forever.

Concepts that neither start nor end. Space and time unchained and set loose on a path that is supposed to lead to the beginning.

Unmoving.

Circling each other.

Anxious.

Waiting for the right words that they might begin to move.

But what, then, is left to say?

Footrace

The still interrupted maybe, by a question: What do you know of the freedom you seek?

The peace we seek

The silences that we can manage.

The chains that we think we can carry. The weights we think we can bare.

Or, maybe then, freedom is a trap so tight – you can go everywhere with it.

If then, freedom is this – this ever elusive nothing that we chase in the escape of ourselves. This thing that we grasp for and never really touch.

Yes, freedom as a possibility, as perhaps.

Maybe freedom, then, is a thought. At the point. A thought from which thought can sprout. A not yet there.

Or perhaps it is that it is a word, whispered in the middle of the night to the unyielding moon.

Is it a song, that it might be sang and played again on repeat – circulated for a few days before dropping out of the sky?

What do you know of this freedom that you seek?

Where do you go when you search for freedom?

Tell me, what do you mean when you speak of freedom?

What then is it to speak to be heard? To tell stories of freedom?

 

“(I am) the speak with intent to offend offender”

  • Mensa, FOKN BOIS

“Lock my body, Can’t trap my mind”

Jay Z

“What you want from me? Is it truth you seek?”

  • Kendrick

“Freedom freedom, I can’t move, freedom – cut me loose”

Beyonce

You keep running.