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Waiting.

The flapping of dozens of pairs of wings. The hum of passing traffic. The heavy rumble of a train as it passes overhead. 

If you've never heard what a train sounds like from under a bridge, I wouldn't say I'd recommend it. Personally, it seems to resemble rolling thunder, if the thunder were sounding through a megaphone, mere inches from my ear. In my humble opinion, the ruckus is so anxiety inducing, it sends a shiver down my spine every time that I'm forced to hear it and I pray to any god willing to strain its ear through the static, to keep my soul intact.

In the moments before the train rolls by, I can feel it, the sound, building under my feet. In the moments after the train has stopped and the noise has paused, I take a deep breath and hold it. As the train bellows away, wheels screeching against the rails, cars click-clacking back and forth overhead, I exhale and shake it off.  

It's a noise so loud it burrows into skin and radiates through bone. A noise so loud I can taste it. Copper and dry mouth, like cotton stuffed under my lips and pennies stuck between my teeth...

 

I really can't stand waiting for the bus under here.  

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a c o n s c i o u s n e s s


smudges of pale blur develop familiar angles, grey becomes colour, demonic figures and discarded figments of imagination slowly morph into things; a lamp, a book, the leg of the bed... as diluted photons -tired, perhaps? it is a long way from the centre of the solar system; imagine over 170 thousand years of emission and fusion from and into ions and atoms just to be created, just to be ejected (alone) into the universe- seep through the pores of a hanging fabric to infinitely -or perhaps finitely- carry on 

 

materialisation; the coming into being (what is being?)

 

perhaps the universe is an energy

 

and it starts, the crossover; the transition from restless numbness as the photons bounce off inches of skin, as the nightly manifestations of the mind evaporate, as the life -merely hours ago- fluttering over an unconsciousness clasps and possesses... pain is it the head? the shoulders? the limbs? not sharp, not piercing: existent.

 

pain as the blood that circulates and mobilises, dull yet heavy like balls of lead that has long made a home out of the fingertips, the toes, and the heart


a synchronicity of connected-detached happenings; the waking of the world (but it never really goes to sleep) and that of the voices, the hollow within; it has a face and an existence, and sometimes it speaks through a once familiar vocal apparatus


perhaps it is a parallelism of things



in any way, whatever it is, however it may be, the stream of the indefinite continuous progress of existence brings forth yet another 'day'

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fragments

Refuse to be labeled, tell them, tell the mirror that your value is intrinsic; it stems from you.

 

All she wanted was days when air didn't feel like sharp knives cutting through her lungs; days when she felt existent, unblurred, alive. 

 

I want to effervesce away into the wind.

 

But if time were to halt, if the earth were to stop its calculated spinning, if the universe were to pause today, all that would be left of me are those half-finished thoughts, those half-finished paintings; those unlived lives.

 

-dreams are visual manifestations of buried nostalgia; the subconscious's house of mirrors. They hold no meaning- "I saw her last night", she would say, and something inside of her would stir; acid corroding reason, dissolving logic. "You're the only one she visits", the acid would reply. "She comes for you, she blames me for your anxiety"... and the acid would morph into something heavy, as if crystallised into rocks of guilt. 

 

"We are born free", they say, not noticing the bell jar under which they were trapped, millions of years ago, before conception, before everything, an entrapment as ancient as the humankind; a snow globe of 'factors', geography, culture, language, history, connotations, your eyes, your hair, the shape of your nose, the texture of your skin, classifications, categories, politics, what's 'right' and what's 'wrong'. Hell, Heaven, Nothing. We are a continuity, born into bell jars into which the world has blown its stale breath... Walls, invisible mental blocks behind which lies non-regurgitated air; 'freedom'.

 

Don't you want to walk barefoot and feel something?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Of Atoms, and Other Things We're Made Of

 

“I looked through the window at the palm tree standing in the courtyard of our house and I knew that all was still well in life. I looked at its strong straight trunk, at its roots that strike down into the ground, at the green branches hanging down loosely over its top, and I experienced a feeling of assurance. I felt not like a storm-swept feather but like that palm tree, a being with a background, with roots, with a purpose."- A Book.


I had a rush of a feeling, as I read and reread -and reread- that excerpt, a feeling resembling a nostalgia for something I've never experienced. Like a homesickness for a 'home' that's never existed... It's strange, being human.


I've always been a little envious of those who seemed inextricably connected to something bigger than themselves, of those who related to a background or have taken it upon themselves to embody a culture; a series of customs, things that 'must' be performed, ways in which those things are performed, people to whom it all made sense. I've always been a little envious of those who have a predefined, concrete meaning of 'home'.

Well, envious of and annoyed with.


Why do we feel obligated to act in accordance to a set of predesigned morals? Is it the convenience of fitting into pret-a-porter molds instead of undergoing the existential anguish of being your own person?


What if I identify as that storm-swept feather?


It is fascinating, how the notion of roots fluctuates sometimes between feelings of suffocation, paralysis, and repression and those of warmth and acceptance. But really how accepting is conditional acceptance?


Perhaps it's the image of a 'security blanket' I'm occasionally a little envious of; the feeling it generates; that you are an inseparable molecule, woven into something that predates you and will continue to exist long after you have ceased... perhaps in a way that is the closest we get to immortality. Perhaps it's the closest we get to not being alone.


But in a time where everything and everyone seem to be swallowed by a system or another, and we seem to no longer ponder the meaning of things, I'd rather stay a storm-swept feather. Free, light, wandering. However forgettable I may be, I am still ultimately an inextricably intricate part of an inextricably intricate ecological system that does not bother with who I am or how I look or the concepts I choose or those I reject; and when my bones decay and I am one with earth, my atoms will mix with those of trees or scatter as dust, and everywhere will be 'home'.


 

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nowhere in particular

I would like to disappear, within the curves of the letters of a second hand book, or behind the lines of one fresh out the printer. I want to be the meaning, the abstract, the molecules; a gentle breeze or a harsh ray of sunlight.

Our souls are grander than our bodies could possibly encompass, and that is -perhaps- the epitome of our human conundrum. I don't dare venture into the depth of the philosophical, nor can I summon any scientific support to my endeavours; I am but a dot swallowed by the vastness of existence.

I, like many, have a body. One that is restrained, labeled, ranked, and classified. One which time and circumstance have shown, show, and will show no mercy. A body restricted by the bounds of name, descent, society, and culture. A body judged aesthetically- more unsolicited than not. We have but to step out into the world for it to hail upon us its labels, for it to classify and rank us from a single stare. 

We have bodies, but we are souls.

I am a soul.

I would like to disappear, into the noise, or within the music; disintegrate in the chaos, or dance along the calm. I want to be the warm touch, the cold shoulder, the feelings that flood or those that soothe.

I want to be the freedom, the waterfall, the drizzle. I want to be the elements.

My soul transcends me, outgrows me. My soul is the universe; it is everywhere, it is nowhere...and I, too, would like to be nowhere in particular.

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Wow, that's a big brain!

I think it’s kind of genius. I think that it’s so amazing and miraculous and that’s only cause no one knows about it yet. I don’t even know about it yet. It’s going to be gold amongst another dimension (because gold is the only thing I could think of that has monetary value amongst humans). It’s going to sell out and rock out because it exists in secret…and that’s what makes it pure and special. Like, the air is fucking it, and there are outer-worldly phenomenon touching it. Nothing is eating it up and nothing is something. But, this genius, this thing is innocent and it’s never seen a fight break out or a murder. It’s kind of violent but it doesn’t know violence. It’s crazy kind of like Carroll from the drug-drug days. (I hated everything he said but I couldn’t stop reading it.) I bet he was a beautiful man but media portrayed him ugly and otherwise. But Jim Carroll isn’t what’s hiding, it’s just this thing that’s forever and we don’t know about it yet. It’s swimming in us and all around us. It’s a great force. I just feel like once we develop the technology to catch it, we’re going to study it into extinction. It’s genius but it’s not invincible. Our frontal cortex makes us liable to fuck it up, weather it be with attention or syringes. I hope it lasts when it debuts but for now the fairies and the sprites are enjoying it cause we might kill em’ too. 

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Dogeared

No one ever asks to be the center of a meaningful story. Those who do, don't know better.

They don't know how much it hurts to travel through the sea of hard-eyed faces that represent real conflict. Settings are arenas. New people are the honored dead, or even worse, they're lions. Try it sometime. Find out what's happening just past polite. Find out who needs you. Listen.

Give it a week. You'll realize how wrong you were.

Give it a month. You'll change, whether you let yourself or not.

Give it a few more character establishing arcs. You won't even recognize what you once knew.

Then compare the pain to your progress. If you're even close to happy? Your life's a genre story.

If you don't have answers, congratulations.

Your life is literary. I hope you win a prize.

Prompt: wonderfulwritingprompts

48: A Word

Unwanted. 
It's late. I finished a manuscript draft. The opinions represented here only represent one of many of my many contradictions. My editing department is currently furloughed. (Thanks, Obama...) (c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts, feedback, and amusingly sarcastic memes.

 

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Desire by richard lynn livesay

 

Let me burn

burn into ashes,

ashes into the wind,

wind that whispers secrets,

secrets that fill my head with awe,

awe that transfigures, transcends mind

mind, too minded by a righteous world, unconscious

unconsciousness of the tiniest atom within the material plexus

plexus of photons,light ,maybe the quantum light soul, a wave of eternity

eternity, spiraling in a never ending cycle, holding the answer to everything, Now

Now I lay me down to sleep, dreams become reality and my reality, surreal independence

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Communicate

Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?

I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful.  I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?

Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?

Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?

I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer,  blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day. 

Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.

And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?

Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.

Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:

One love.

Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.

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Gambitine by richard lynn livesay

Death stumbled out ~

out of closet doors

crying for deadly truth

entwined in disembodied

light-webs, crossing borders

aligned

behind dogmatic

exhaled theology

approaching

near insanity

 

childhood profanity, fairytale curses

blinding secret  histories

dimming shining lights

as cradles crack on rocks and

mother's milk spills, shocking

star- blinked galaxies in the Way

like sea-shore sands

washed into glassy infinity

turning their backs, expecting nothing

 

then, A marches in the imaginary art of life

draws delicate conclusions in dirty pants

marginalizing the gambit

living blindly

with tendencies

to search passion's nebulosity

transcendent

flux and flutter of

mind-thoughts as

I shutter, asking

 

What is poetic justice?

I spread blankets of intelligence on angled hooves

enrapture poetic promises in vague plans

then dust the coal from my head

weeping with willows,

as the words of my soul

convulse in raw strains

written in hollowed hills

beneath the velvet rocks

I gasp in passions of dying scansions

glance upon the city’s putrid air

calling forth Thor's vacuum cleaner

to stop at coffee houses

speaking in rage of

more players dead upon the stage

 

The call for a truce

for clowns and acrobats, for

dripping, distant screams of blood

on mounds

of curling crippled mud

sink while wine-words dance upon a fire

drawn from saintly hoods

trapping

sentient senses and

opening raw wounds of whispers

laughter wasted on words of twisted sisters

sacrificed upon the second time,

above the conscious mind of the sacrificed Gambitine