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I set my face to the hillside

I did not know it was possible to set one's face to the hillside.

I thought I was smelling flowers, watching waves.

But, apparently, I set my face to the hillside. Here's how I know:

The act:

Some hours after this as-of-yet unnamed act, I listen to as-of-yet undiscovered music, intrigued I am! What ís this music?

The naming:


So it goes.


The band is called Tortoise.

The album is called TNT.

An album called TNT, by a band called Tortoise???

On this album, twelve songs, all with interesting titles!?

A story unfolds.

Let's make a poem!

Recipe against disaster

TNT, it's dynamite, they say

Blow yourself out of your hell

Be Swung From the Gutters

And allow yourself a Ten-Day Interval

Of nothingness

Then, find some fresh air to hit the nostrils

- walk, go and be in nature

What I usually do is,

I Set My Face to the Hillside (whatever that means)

and inhale all that is there.

Now, refreshed: time for some warmth.

Best found, again, outside, not inside

(the recipe FOR disaster, after all, is brewed ínside)

So, let's go,


The Equator.

But remember : don't hurry!

For haste is cultural disease number one

So, no haste!

There once was a spaceman,

always wanting to go further and faster

he even found a simple way to go faster than light.


it turned out it was, in the end

A Simple Way to Go Faster Than Light That Does Not Work.

For going faster than light,

there is no point,

simple or hard way,

no way, it works.

'Slow down', the light spoke to the spaceman

and so he, and we, return,

back home,

to earth.

Moving towards the middle,

the equator,

one has to cross a few bridges.

Most figurative, some literal

often, both,

like The Suspension Bridge at Iguazú Falls.

the fall is deep, the sky is steep,

the air is green and the bridge quite mean.

Don't hesitate, keep on walking,

'go, don't look back,' the old stories tell us.

Suspended in mid-air, you walk.

You're getting closer,

no haste!


This time,

take a Four-Day Interval.

Like spices they are, these intervals,

a pinch here, a splash there,

too little and it dulls the senses

too much and the equilibrium

is broken.

Take a deep breath,

smell the potion


take a trip inside.

is there beginning, end?

where did you start, is there a goal?

stop thinking and start listening

it’s all the same?

A seemingly quite astute paper written by Mencken,

read out by Christ on the Cross, laughing his ass off, somehow

all made it into Beethoven’s fifth,

This is Sarah’s thesis; she flunks, what now?

A big fire, and they’re all there, all and more

dancing, it’s ok, we’re all here.

In Sarah, Mencken, Christ, and Beethoven There Were Women and Men

In all of us, everyone, but not faster than light,

not always, not never,

Almost Always is Nearly Enough,

you reach out

and wake up

on a Jetty.

You're in the liminal space

between water and earth

between going and arriving

one last look back

one last look ahead

one last look around



Ever glad

Ever gliding

See you later, crocodile.

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