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:
Some hours after this as-of-yet unnamed act, I listen to as-of-yet undiscovered music, intrigued I am! What ís this music?
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
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,
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,
Moving towards the middle,
one has to cross a few bridges.
Most figurative, some literal
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,
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
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
See you later, crocodile.