Sink or Swim
Let's go down to the beaches and run from the edge of the sea. See what the movement teaches, a frail sense of autonomy. Cold toes in the water, two steps from freezing feet. Feel the strength as you go in deeper, and the cold consistency. And if there's anyone watching, you dare not turn around until your arms are doing the clutching as your feet leave the ground. Control or capitulation? A new sense of affinity, having lost all hesitation. Back there it was just the sea. Just a blue mass on the postcard. Just a place to race the boats. Just a waveline on the blackboard. Now see how long the illusions float. With risk co-ordination, swim half way as far as you can. We lose control of the situation when we think we've got it all pre-planned. Back in the dead-air building blocks, we loose the urge to take a risk. And in these concrete houses we dry out in the heat, and invent the worst excuses to stay there permanently. Too many regulations. Too many rituals. The biggest risk was taken deep-ending in the swimming pool. The structured sand and water reflects our structured lives. We swim, but never further than the constraints of our minds. Let's get back to the beaches: wider than a postcard. And run straight into the sea: longer than a holiday. That's what the movement teaches. Sink or swim: spontaneity. See what citizen can be, if we recall the deep blue sea that evolved our weary brains, getting shrunk from too much stress. We either get back into swimming or we sink into a mess!
You know nothing will ever get solved if you feel that you shouldn't get involved. Claiming ignorance of what to say, or how to say it the "proper" way. Nodding your head but building walls by keeping your thoughts invisible. And blaming ignorance on everyone else for leaving you stranded by yourself. Well we presumed you were happy like that. If you'd dropped the scowl, you'd be in for a chat. Maybe, it's as simple as what they see, and they cannot see a lot! So don't point the finger until you've shaken the hand. Get to know the way these people understand. From strangers at a party, "Well, whose that over there?" to those in a different country where the language makes you scared. If you're in a solo situation, face to unknown face, start a walking conversation and then increase the pace. The walls get built by silence, but are easily replaced, for in every style of language it is easy to relate. And a smile or open signal can lay the barriers to waste. Pack a few less self-images and make it less of an ego trip and the distance will be nothing between visitor and visited. Words used such as "strangers" make us sink in hesitation but the language of intention speaks out loud in all directors. Once you've cleared your inner fears, you can carry on for years!
Same Old 'Starving Millions'
There's a lot of people. There's a lot of food. There's a lot of money all being misused. You feed the starving millions with donations of a quid. Then you buy another telly, cause that is what the neighbors did. You flick across the channels and catch the evening news. All those starving children are staring right at you. You're no longer feeling guilty because you've given to the cause. And there's another Royal baby to help you ignore. Who's doing very well, thank you, and that's all from the news at Ten. We'll be back with the sordid facts, covered over with trivial crap, to help you stop thinking, to keep you relaxed, same time tomorrow night. See you then.
Silence, considering musical violence. As the airwaves break those anytime pauses, quiet reflection on the nature of noises. Disturbing suburban platitudes. Heard a yell that created a solitude. Outside. Opened the window wide. My curiosity satisfied: it was no one I knew, so I carried on hiding. My instinctive reaction to join in the shouting and increase the volume, but a voice in my head told me to shut up instead. Return to the previous peace I'd been seeking for no other reason than to work out a theory that noise is just sound on a different scale to what we expect. So I started to yell out loud. Soon a curious crowd was standing outside looking up at my window. I looked out. They could see I was no one they knew, so their instinctive reaction to be part of the noise, or part of the reason for the silence destroyed, got hid. "Nobody does" what I did, except for the person whose total immersion in this social excursion was more than diversion. With a similar yell, I could tell who he was, the voice with a noise that I'd heard. And because of one yell, had sort of broken the spell. We laughed and we shouted in the lack of respect for the conditional silence that has come to connect all the neighbors as strangers living under the threat of discovering life beyond what they expect.
Big Big House
Picture a scene and pull it apart. Who owns this field? Who drives that car? Who put up a sign saying, "This is mine." "Keep off the grass!" and "Keep in line!" Big, Big House in the countryside, the souvenir shops don't close until nine. Postcards will do when the sun don't shine. Please be gone by closing time. Picture a scene and pull it apart. Who built this house from the very start? Who was forced to work for some food in their hand, and some space in the corner of the master's land? This exploitation based on class is here in the present like it was in the past. History builds an image that we never look behind. Someone is giving orders, while the rest are kept in line. Here it is your heritage, based on class and privilege. Mr. and Mrs. Average are thinking this is fine. Living somewhere in-between the cardboard box and the Limousine, part of their same society, conveniently re-defined.
I've got a mind bomb disposal unit knocking on my head, checking out the rumors that I meant just what I said. They've drawn so many chalk lines that I may as well be dead. On the blackboard, on the pavement, but I won't eat what I am fed. I've seen the public access but they wouldn't' let me in. Conformity has a dress code and I'm two stone over thin. And anyhow the chances are they wouldn't let me in. Presumptions give the innovator no chance to begin. It's either "be one step ahead" or "keep up with the rest." There's so many messages telling me they know what's best. I've got a mind bomb disposal unit knowing on my head. They've opened up the corridors and left the doors ajar with anoraks and plastic bags the consumer can go far. Ashtrays fill and pinball's tilt to emphasize the scars of a society raised on promises falling back on credit cards. So let's go on a cathode raid and steal some empty minds. Fill 'em full of hopes and dreams and call it 'leisure time'. There's a guy who's go no TV and we've got him on the line, stay de-tuned for further progress; here are a few things you can buy. I've strolled across the empty roads as predestrianos stare at lights to turn from red to green to get from there to there. Billboard faces mock attention, given unaware. Reliance on subliminals and a defiance of being scared. And there's a token comic at the bottom of the page. It isn't very funny, but we're laughing anyway. Smiles are hard to come by when the picture starts to fade and someone's favorite punch line is another person's wage. I've thought in terms of relaxation, on giving tings a rest, cause the constant realization leaves presumptions in a mess. But every turn in the situation seems to be a test; a dotted line for the mind to sign away it's intellect. But not me, not yet. The altered state of reality that's printed, screened and said is feeding time for the mind that knows of nothing else instead. Keen to kill the essential will of refusing to be fed, I've got a mind bomb disposal unit knocking on my head.
Chili pain! The heat is hot like desert rain, floods of fire as I perspire; all sensation feeds the flame. 'Did it before do it again.' Something transmits to my brain, though chemical sparks that quickly drain into the arteries and veins and throat the scarcity of any type of other need. Like the cut without the bleeding, some intensity of feeding from the mass slowly reeling with physical mental sharpened feeling. I could attack or defend. Choose the time I spend without counting the cost, without feeling a loss. Almost any space increases as the twitching face decreases. So push the essence and feel the grain, trace the source through the fire and pain.
Give me Beethoven
Give me Beethoven or give me death! Fasten your seatbelts, hold your breath. Don't want to think about watery graves. Blow me away on the turbulent waves. Ear phone chatline to the creator. Keep his plane up a few hours later. The C60 cycles the number five across the air as we wave goodbye to having any destiny control. New sense of fear with a love of the old. Being able to gain from a shaking plane. A proximity to death and maybe living again. In musical form! Unconsidered before! Well that's quite a lofty ambition kid, to be attached to Ludwig Van. Were unrelaxed by thoughts of turbulence making cracks in their temporary home. I was gone dispatched to the flights of fancy nightmare edged that grasping strings. Leap from the ledge and punctuating air with firsts like orchestrated masochists cry 'freedom from all rational fear!' And hit the waves prepared to dive. For what goes reaching down as deep as that which takes us all so high?
Talk it Over
If all the things you say to me were steps towards some unity I wouldn't keep on staring in semi disbelief. Because as you say you'd do one thing, you behave so contradictory. So don't profound your theories if they don't reflect reality. I don't know you very well, I find it hard to even tell you that you don't do what you could do if you wanted to drop the image you have of me, and talk a bit more openly. Sat across the table in an empty house, are we ever really able to talk it out? Don't stop to count the amount of times we've tried. Watching the walls as the conversation died. Open the windows and look outside. A million strangers are walking by and us creating alibis for what we really feel inside. You don't know me very well, I don't know you very well, we find it hard to even tell each other that we'd like to talk it over. Remove the cover, talk it over. Find a corner, talk it over.
Grabbed by the shoulders he shook his head in desperation knowing whatever was said in this situation would only lead, like it had already led, to having his shoulders shaken again by those that believed that when nothing was said, then nothing was meant. Yet by the shaking they could only prevent any one-to-one making clear of intent. Not that merely waiting would've guaranteed a different state in this latent situation. And no amount of patience can replace a caring statement lined with an indication of the kind of slow frustration that no offered explanation of an action, lying beyond the comprehension, builds. All the will in the world is never enough, nor the animosity that gets rough-some nameless touch I needed to calm the gaps between the offender and the offended until the cracks that nature unintended in the minds of those where any hope has ended, are closed. And once where necks were almost wrung the voices sing things never sung together, maybe not so much forever, but enough to keep unsevered the connections once begun.
Central Nervous System
Comfort? Sofa chair, pacifying words, a touch on the shoulder to tell me that you'd heard. Understanding to attention just in case you heard it wrong. A few of contradiction cause your feeling can't belong to this given situation that no one can take away. A smile a nervous glance, 'Well, I'll be back some other day' but you really had to go and left this atmosphere behind. So now it's back to circumstance, solutions hard to find. As I turn the burning embers of a past that recently I'd found harder to remember than I thought was good for me. But once confirmed the truth had pulled that "recently" to shreds. Now the obvious lies bleeding and the future holds my breath. Shall I turn the page and start again? Or throw the book away? Shall I tell you of these feelings? Or find something new to say? It's the act of making choices, asking questions hearing voices missing pain and self-resentment with a knowledge that contentment is a process of selection because in every situation there are good and bad directions you can go. You can wallow in the fantasy, regenerating memories, or use the open scenery. Impulse flow more easily if all the good things disappear for what seems like eternity. Remember you created them by being what you'll always be. Receiving input, giving back makes you tick in time. Natural instinctive tack running up the spine. Use your central nervous system to help make up your mind. Looking out with indecision wastes a lot of time. If it feels good, take the risk and here I am talking like this. Saying "you" instead of "me" but experience is globally perceived as being basically a common sense capacity to understand the variety of influence up on the way we are. Having gone so far, there is no reasoning can stop us once we've reasoned what we've got.
When the traffic lights turned red and a car kept going, well, nothing was said. It was quietly understood that if he could do it, anyone could. But the queue remained and we felt the strain of being the majority obeying the authority of traffic lights turned red. When the traffic light turned green and the car in front couldn't start, it seemed like he was holding us up to show we were happy to stop until told to go. And the queue remained and we felt the strain of being the majority needing the authority of traffic lights turned green. When the traffic lights broke down there were lines of cars reaching out of town. We were all too scared to move until a man in a uniform told us what to do. And as we drove on by, we wondered why we hadn't gone the other way or gone ahead and said, "Horray! The traffic lights are broken down!"
Smells Like Home
You can't see the moon above the city. They sky is always full of clouds, even when the sun's gone down. It's like living on the Underground. Black and white in shades of brown, and you can't breathe the air in the city. With the fumes of cars and factories, your lungs aren't what they used to be. Breathe in the new complacency, "at least it's good for industry." "At least it smells like home." And you can't get a job in the city, with all the new technology, robots run the factories. It's sanitized economy. Robots don't get lung disease. And you can't get healthy in the city, the sky is so grey, its like forty fags a day, and the water is hard beneath the foam. The despondency inside, merely reflects the concrete sky. So let's go out. Let's stay in. "At least it smells like home."