Woo.the tale of the butterfly and the shirt pocket

an image is the result of the shock of two images..
these ones were 5 minutes apart
colour pallettes don't seem all so mysterious after you've hung around in a place for a bit.
the patterns step out one by one, carpe diem, carpe diem!

Woo.2

I wasn't looking out for faces for a change. he didn't seem to mind, my black friend.

Woo.1

we were almost all alone

Woo.0

     I met this guy on the beach some days ago.

     He started following me after I took this picture.

     I guess you get attached to people when they've seen you all howly.

.

11th November, 2010

If I keep falling in love with the world again at this rate, I'm going to make myself sick

Bard

Poetry.
Being on its side, and then stepping on to the other side to see what it isn't.
That's what I'd done.
To dot out the journey,I'll try using words from everywhere, all the better to get the image out faster at this moment. It seems urgent that I write about it right now. I'll try.

Like my addictive French philosopher once said at the end of a bitter search for a happy death...'nothing was left now but the transparent truth which is the opposite of poetry.'
But he was wrong, because I met my old cluster of poets again recently. The bards.
The bards who entwined all of us as characters together for a time.

I had moved from a search between the gaps, those ghosts between all those those things once said, to only things which had a tone, a voice, cold facts, evidence, solid, opaque, resolute evidence, it had been 9 long months before I walked back recently into the unknown, played on a chance, happened to meet them, these bards of ours, and bam! fell back onto what I'd always known: I needed to be faithful to life, intrinsically truthful, a work has for me to be at once an exact factual account and must never leave behind that poetic dialogue I am constantly entrenched in. As plain as that. It's not about courage. It's about faith! This mad groping through unfamiliar paths has got to be accepted as a way of living my life. I cannot afford to be tired because my hands tingle with what they must, and most importantly can say.

No wonder I could only speak of the horses in the present continuous some time back . Stuttering , stammering, utterly truthful, clear, but who else could hear it, but I? That's what haunted me.
What joy, to find a tongue again now. 

We figured it that night, me and the bards. We figured it again. I am happy to be living. And I vow to not forget. Because I have seen this, we have seen it before. And the poetry will persist.

  








Almost as a sign two days back, I saw the horses again,... on a road near the city, like a sign from nowhere, only this time, they had their forefeet tied together, it was hot, they stumbled by and stared at me like they always do. A happy death would not be in the transparency, or the search for it. Because transparency is what I'd started out with in the first place.