Yves Klein is dead.

1.

Removing the body from the mind                                 They returned their lengths, their widths

Till all that was left was depth                                         Blue depth: blue and profound nothingness

2.

When I hear your voice
it is like my smile is foisted up by a hoard of trumpets on the high seas, but climbing somehow towards the sun like kites full of flapping rhythmic laughter, up, laughter fronted by a host of sheened teeth defying the scalding eye like unmeltable shields on wings of wind

3.

Yet subsequent days bring subsequent truth
of the matter & my mind
reconfigured as an open doorway
now obscured by beauty
a tree that stands straight and asks me to climb

That was last night’s dream.
Today, I am jumping too hard and fall through the floor.
Tomorrow I am looking too hard down a well and find myself inside it.
You can simply throw a blanket over the hole, and tread lightly over it.
A dream is not really anything.
But if I have nothing, I am prepared for everything;
giant coastal purr, floating.

Cuddling a pooch helps when you’re feeling blue: fact.

I was wondering today what the effects are of detachment from one’s homeland. I am, perhaps, a useless subject on the matter because I have been adrift upon the European continent since I was but a twinkle in my father’s eye, who himself lived the life of a wandering agricultural salesman, of the plough and the planter alike. A life of a cock, and of a bull. While I feel the constant pressure of losing out on friendships that, frankly, have not been so easy to acquire, I also fear the loss of myself that will render me unrecognisable. I can honestly say that minds work differently in different parts of Europe. And this is not only evident in language. The social rules are different, and the unwritten rules are different too.

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mental graveyards

I feel like this blog is under metamorphosis. Not only a place where I lay my thoughts to rest, but a place where ideas die, become obselete.

“Like Clavius Earbrass, she often sat in front of the keys, tapping out eloquent sentences that were completely devoid of meaning or context. She rubbed her right wrist in painful resentment. Perhaps this business wasn’t a good idea after all.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll fashioning myself as a George Gissing of the noughties; perhaps we are ready for a second derivation?”

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Life is a dream, and so is mathematics

So it’s day two (I’ll give up the day counting tomorrow, perhaps instead needlessly referring to the date as a matter of urgency like intergalactic Avon lady, Captain Kirk.)

The internet is down. THE INTERNET IS DOWN. Less pressingly, there is a power cut, so I may have to molotov cocktail some potatoes for dinner (if you are insane and want to try this, don’t forget to foil wrap first.)

I have just ‘put’ the kids ‘to bed’, quotes highlighting the irony of this statement given that upon closing the door they spring out of their beds and start hopping about like miniature clowns. In any case, I wish them pleasant dreaming, no matter how lucid. I am having the genius dream at the moment, in which I come up with an inspired and earth-shattering idea, only to wake up with a vague sense of the idea being something to do with… whatever it was – beans, or god, or whatever. The genius dream is reminding me that I know nothing. Continue reading