from the leaf dedicated to dedications
seekers seeking truth - the ones, the workings, the find
of humour, of wise, good vibrational energy, those elders who are there,
somewhere,
those whom few have been privileged to meet,
to pass by, those legendary real ones . . .
a reverberating turning of a great, cosmic, everything of all, infolding, enfolding, rolling in, out, through, via, across, between, beyond, to, from, amidst, over, upon . . .
She. Mother. Earth. Her, Mother Earth. EarthMother Her. Earth, Mother, She
Romeos and Juliet’s, their stories transmuting,
telling sublime tales escorted by happiness,
genuine love partnerships, blossomings,
Rosy Hue sanctioned, sanctified, blessed, that
community resides refreshed, in redolence,
rested in beautiful, burgeoning stimulus,
unto the agéd still in caress,
all in a specialness of specialness . . .
fond family, the child, the impressionable, the vulnerable, the sensitive ones,
care, nurture - astuteness,
that all elders do eldership, that they finally catch a wake up to the fact that
they were relied upon to be trustworthy, noble, respect-filled, humble, large,
to be those of humour, of wise, good vibrational energy in the first place!
May all of all of Earth Space be habitation of lilting grace in
legendary, legionary abundance of real elders - in the true sense
may there be full knowing, may full knowing be,
may knowing live, living know;
fullness, knowingness, beingness, life!
a seething soil, saliently drinking, eating, giving : wholesome, delicious
voice, sound, utterance . . . words - Ha! their origin,
language, writing, speech,
that the entity of linguistic exposition may hear,
resounding,
a call to freedom from the bondage of serving clamour
with a taunting yabber of fear, power games, greed, warfare,
that this may activate, transform, ascend into
pure, playful flourish of simplicity in sensual expression of essence
this dedication is dedicated to the sources of acerbica
ambrasia kurtz
near acerbica
November 2010 P.C.E. - Last Tun
from leaves for writing on writings -
" pass words at the gate "
from Saturday, 5 June
to Friday, 19 - Saturday, 27 November 2010 P.C.E.
to Thursday, 6 January 2011 P.C.E., 06:29:37
10 Oc, 8 Caban, 3 Chicchan, 4 Chicchan
" pass words at the gate "
from Saturday, 5 June
to Friday, 19 - Saturday, 27 November 2010 P.C.E.
to Thursday, 6 January 2011 P.C.E., 06:29:37
10 Oc, 8 Caban, 3 Chicchan, 4 Chicchan
genral’s broomRoom : broomroom@ymail.com
. . . could it ever have been anticipated that eye-witness, authentic accounts of the brutal barbarity of Apartheid would bring down the mercury even a drop on the thermometer that measures heat of global atrocity, never mind that those race supremacists subsequently might appear incongruously temperate when compared to that which truly bubbles away at the incendiary centre of global goings on.
In a PS at Fie(5a) sending’s sources say that they ". . . have been on extensive foray through the cavernous membranes that cajole between different dispensations that jostle in contra-distinctory disarray in the worlds between worlds of converging eras in the 21st century P.C.E. societal display of diversity within humanity on 4.5 billion years old planet Earth".
Geographicality, station, an era distanced Queen in power; peons are fed illusion, gross inaccuracies, primped and primed to chase after aristocracy wealth wager by war; they embark evacuation of enormous emigration exploit, to seize control of seafaring drug traffic routes, to plunder, ravage, vanquish resource for The Britannia Consortium, gems, gold, metals, minerals, to impose rule by ruthless, thug economy; English forebear 1820 settlers hit the shores of a southern African scene seeing leave to rise in status and fortune by over lording a slave caste labour force, but they are clueless to see through the upper class ruse that has duped them buffer class into rank and file, colonial servitude.
150 years of upwardly tussling charade façade bequeaths "macabre caverns, sane side of fantasy",12.1 as minority middle class mediocrity, moiling mass ménage mirage mentality, hallucinates its prejudice bears credibility, alongside the prognosis of a very real speciality - when a child - misunderstood - something to say - to tell - how? in the face of no one who could see or hear very well - they make ‘Lizzie’ drink her tea out of a tin mug in the scullery - it’s blatant skulduggery. Colonial girl ‘at sea’, "who’s messin’ with me . . . ?"
. . . controlled convention enacted by intention, cultural intervention, learned retention, silent, oral, written. Literature studies, archetypal tale collections, themes, expositions, damsel in the tower, the dungeon, the underground, the confessional, assault on love story, power - should she scream, "Mister, Mister, wake up, wake up!", would 007 dash to the scene? Ah, the brand of illicit, covert terror long seen by some who know it by any other name, ‘spooks’.
So! A source will sprout and flow out 405 intense words 5a.A in one, fastidiously intelligible sentence. Well, for a writer that’s 2410 written characters expressing telling of but an infinitesimal of a life being lived, encountering foible, obstacle, hindrance, vagueness, contradiction, confusion, art word music voice craft creativity, joy, the doing, sharing, what and how to eat, what others eat and do and how, need, supply, consumption, what reality is, fabrication vs fact, questions, questioning, questioning that suggests, a suggesting which may pervade that which pertains as investigative community emerges, identifies its caucus, defines, gains grouping, momentum; social strata policies, behaviour, by some upon others, sexuality, what is it, where comes it from, what is it for, why and by whom is it being tampered with, for what, how can it be restored to its purpose, which is what, does it have a higher purpose and what has all of this got to do with everything else, seeking, finding, notching negotiation of necessary negligibles even to the most ordinary of basic household equipment, implements, tools, in recurring moments of diurnal, domestic application, water boiling, energy, baking, vocation, occupation, gigs, labour, leisure, sensations, lifestyles, communications, eschatological immensities, working it all out . . .
World Wide Web. How and why some people see stuff - global élite groups push guile overdrive tactical ushering in of their ‘new world order’, as they term it, self-asserting their presupposing all importance; by clan-destined conspiring they preside, live-it-up, their antics nearly comical, viewed from an all-seeing, cosmological eye, they too would be but minions. Some people see stuff, others not, they ignore, don’t want to, won’t, can’t, going way back, stipulated fundamentalism patrols the genes to interpolate records. ‘History’.
Waking to the real nightmare of monstrous proportions, sci-fi, horror, ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’, ‘Stepford Wives’. Shock. Utter, steely cold rage as globalists screed the human race of its resource, its labour, its output, its harvest, then screed the race of its ebullient, noble zest, reducing it to baseness, then screed again till a minimum, servile number remain, compliant, doing unquestioningly as bidden, mere scree littering the bottom of a downhill, mutated, trans-human, zombies. Alerts, warnings, rebuttals refute non-responsive entropy sloughing to deadness, rebuke a viral seethe of haughty nastiness building, underneath, inside, infecting Camus one to one, till every last person is ‘The Outsider’. The acerbicans receive an email from a friend, ‘Buitelanders - it seems at times unfathomable terrain - how you, that Canadian lass, feel there, strange, my experiences this side too - I just know I've been spoken to by superiors, colleagues, the public, with the most disrespect I've ever been unfortunate to be on the receiving end of - it's a very high horse some people have looked down at me from - to be able to, be allowed to, want to, need to reach the core, the light, the tick, that innerness of people, seems a very, very rare gift, one I see very little of around me’.
Swift’s memory can be raised nostalgically, his writings, parodying callous English hierarchy, suggesting eating babies will ease Irish famine. Alas, utilising facetiousness to make a point can miss most people, leave them stoically winter, like the writer or speaker is presumed stupid for presuming to employ such intricate, expressive techniques - when someone doesn’t get it, funny how the deliverer is the idiot. Satyr. Satyre. Satire!10.1 The words, their origin, interplay, meaning, allude to the process that satire has been, a story and study in itself. Satire conspires with subtleties, ironies and this just does require girding the agility of wit to effect interchange or exchange in the mode of communication and, communication the genre is, dialectic, mutually didactic talk, discursive dialogue, speak moving thought.
Perhaps the art of satire should be consigned to the bin of antiquity extinction? There’s small market segment - the linguistic investigator, those of the privileged learning sector, the self taught, studying, self investor - education levels are down and media corporations control by syndicating only visual and sound pound into static, staple schlock? Enter 'sendings'. An eccentric’s genre, an eclectic, hybrid with monograph, screed, with drama, voice in poetic constructively tearing at issues that tear at the flesh, yet also an investigative journalese, the work must substantiate, satisfy credibility, but with onus on the integrity and reliability of self tale, what has been eye-witnessed and lived at ‘ground zero’.
With not too much ado, ambrasia kurtz arrived through WOoden portals during 2009 P.C.E.. A 'whírl-word' lyric script* going into the studio in the October borrowed from her perspective. The 'sendings' series, borrowing from the editorial technique of reading aloud, accrued momentum, and resource was reapportioned to the growing breadth, depth and acerbic tone necessary to the social criticism in the content. In sharp, mordant writings, ambrasia has been reporting from her sources for a year and a half, and noelle’s vox will be borrowed to complete the eco music factory audio book production for publication. *12.1
ambrasia is accorded unrestricted access and facility to utilise humdrum, professional, zany, sensitive material of diverse personae in acerbica - aspects of family, of multi-faceted creators, StoryTellers, keen researchers. This intends catharsis, illustrates universal, or rather, multiversal, vicarious enquiry. Freedom of expression in biographical, cross-genre?
Increasingly, individual is implored to stand by unique life detail which, anyway, has usually got so much more to do with random acts, thoughts, agendas, interpretations inflicted by others? ambrasia is afforded liberties and she takes them. Improvisation. Comedy. 'sendings' IS x-posing! It is an x-posé. Maybe whingers retort arbitrarily, ‘why do you do this thing?’ Well really, some ‘things’ plead x-posure, revelation, to be dealt a resolute "no!" ambrasia transmits a growing of this, a Self Ethic, in a learning discovery, accountability encounter, a coming into a body space, into the physical sensation of the place of rest that detects suffice to be able to say, ‘please don’t point into my aura’.
Ms kurtz throws out data that poses questions; the data can be denied but, she insists, the questions may'nt be derided. One way or another they are to be acknowledged. The only claim that is claimed, is the disclaimer, see home page. However linguism, the game of it, is escorted by 1.) an anecdote: ambrasia recounts how an acerbican, in the 80’s, was laughing out loud with a predominantly Jewish cinema audience until ‘The Meaning of Life’ Monty Python waitress rhyme, “I feel that life's a game, you sometimes win or lose / And though I may be down right now, at least I don't work for Jews”. The seats of the auditorium bristled instantly chill as her laugh soloed conspicuously. At the live organ transplant scenes, the acerbican noted steady laughter against her silent umbrage; 2.) a note to detractors: "in perceptions of reality, it is likely that every co-communicator with this work is going to feel some upset about some aspect of some thing. If something pushes buttons, there are buttons to be pushed", thus 'a leaf for taking a leaf out of the reader's book' is offered in the hard copy edition to be put to good use.
WOoden editorial log, December 2, 2010: 'chronology of events gets rearranged - publication axis shift'! These were retrospective notes, in reconnoitre towards wrapping up this preface, but the reference now, in retrospect, is cryptic. Perhaps the allusion was, that in ongoing research reporting revision, rewrite of Sending Leven for the inaugural, hard copy edition collided with copy creation first write of conversing 7 for a monthly cyber column.
Going to print with 'sendings' (emphasis on continuous tense!), 'conversings in acerbica', a sequel in the series, was settling - the angela, ambrasia collaboration on getting to source, source that’s busy with *!?!!*!?. . ., source that might peremptorily just shut up; "for the voice so large, where to start?" ambrasia intunes mediumship, clears the mind - cranial vacuum cleaner. (see 'words afterwards') 2004 lyrics from a song completed 2009 are courageous statement and the 'prologue prelude' to this work. (see free .mp3 downloads, note 5a.A)
A word-play glossary accumulates as language is reworked, to incorporate information and concepts in the paradigm and spirit of mammoth disclosure, to assimilate every next, new experience and understanding; the challenge is to intercept inspired language that also flows in sensory connect with inherent inhale, exhale of momentary, murmuring, mundane day.
Meticulous consultation of the notes will yield; vital to context, they are also response to and gratitude for the truth research community. Contact, dialogue, interaction in this regard are welcomed essence. A naw'O'emf colour centrespread presents reference to the sources’ investments. Their 'hand-made' now ventures acerbica recipes into "jazz kitchen" produce.
It is said ‘re-pent’ means ‘turn around’. Au fait with spinning sensations, play is ongoing to tabulate a nifty précis of what acerbica is busy with, one way or another. (see appendices to follow)
The SoundSmith says, "We are ‘taught’ ‘history’ so that we think we know what happened, to comply us now, with the now agenda of others. But we must know now what really did happen, so that we know now who we truly are now, for our own now."
‘Hidden Heroines’ poise perspicacious pencils. ‘The Good Guys’ get to write Story. It’s time.
Greetíngs 2í !
Penelope Aíne Noblé
ChiefSweep
genral’s broomRoom
WOoden family publishing
sendings from acerbica
by ambrasia kurtz
genral’s broomRoom
WOoden family publishing
sendings from acerbica
by ambrasia kurtz
WOoden family publishing
be a ra, Ire Land
be a ra, Ire Land
2010 P.C.E., all rights reserved
notes
5a.A - free .mp3 download, prologue prelude - RTRF :
- free .mp3 downloads, see also notes in articles to follow : 5a.4, 5b.1
for assistance with the downloads email : broomroom@ymail.com
10.1 Satire:- A Dictionary of Literary Terms, J A Cuddon, Penguin Books Ltd,
Harmondsworth, 1982. (Satyre: ‘Satyr’ carries connotations of sexual deviance.)
12.1 a poetic díva dustíng of whírl word lyríc live: essays BY AN ECO POST-FEMINIST
by angela noelle, written 2005/9, produced 2009/10
also eco music factory audio incl. 'Sane Side of Fantasy', epilogue in
a progressively scripted, dramatic lyric in music, culminating in a Five Act,
Psychoacoustic Theatre Experience : üü - überklang überalles.
from 1993 on-going, for staging in contemporary, people’s venues
eco music factory, WOoden family publishing, 2010, all rights reserved
sendings from acerbica contents
a leaf for writing on writings " pass words at the gate "
prologue prelude
"RTRF - Running to Running from"
1. Sending Won(1)
"Sendings from Acerbica"
notes 1
2. Sending TOO(2)
"Am Schotter Weg Heim"
notes 2
3. Sending TREE(3)
"Kneading Bread"
notes 3
4. Sending FOR(4)
"Globally Obtrusive Obtuse Wrappings"
notes 4
5. Sending Fie(5a)
"Non-precious Fiat and Chips on the Shoulder"
notes 5a
6. Sending Fief(5b)
"too hot to handle"
notes 5b
7. Sending Sticks(6I)
"Reaching Orhovelani in Thulamahashe - part I"
notes 6I
8. Sending Sticks(6II)
"Reaching Orhovelani in Thulamahashe - part II"
notes 6II
9. Sending Zen(7)
"Reichs Or Sex gone - part I"
notes 7
10. Sending Men(10)
"Reichs Or Sex gone - part II"
notes 10
11. Sending Leven(11)
"Reichs Or Sex gone? - part fin"
notes 11
12. Sending Twirl(12)
"Managing Gerrick Material"
notes 12
prologue prelude
RTRF – Running to Running from
An intelligent woman finds no rest nor recompense with
the torment one must vent
t’wards those less sufficient
who deem themself more
enough to laud judgement at third party door
Who’s to say what may transpire
when the heart, in great desire for spirit intent to get what’s meant
aims, through onerous paths, to go higher
Yet the steeplechase and mire
of those who think their own betterness qualifies them to condemn
another
forget their own potential credential,
to bear credible witness in the grand selection of life
option and strife
The steeplechase and mire of those with tendency
to forget to own their own propensity to whisper heresy of truth
where truly, then, they may then be named
liar
liar to self and liar
to all that rules for grace and good
They bitch on their own they really do
For wanting to be true
The comfortable little nebulous zone
They deem you betrayer to the zoo
Then they come nab you
Finally at last
beyond the gates
they don’t let you passed
Won’t let you through
To become new
Turning song blue
Living on a piece of land near the sea
from the compilation : "before blue" noelle n numin with d.p.w.t. - see colour centrespread
music-Africa, 2003; guitars, digital takes, arrangement, production-EU, 2009-10 : numin
lyrics, melody-Africa, 2003, ad lyric 18/08/09; vox, arrangement and mix consultant : noelle
production contributor : d.p.w.t.
- free .mp3 download see note : 5a.A
artist mastered audio, eco music factory, 2010, all rights reserved
eco music factory supports campaigns at zerodb.org
Sending Won(1)
" . . . She wants to walk over all schoolmarmish against their brash, into their social unkempt, to ask them, 'are you youngsters still forced into going into the confessional?'; and she wants to order them, 'stop hooting and switch off that engine!' "
Where there could have been a flawlessly incandescent story, they’d been going through some difficulties. Indomitable, creative spirits rising to soar, but there’s this thing doesn’t gel, won’t screw in, doesn’t stick, won’t set, no matter how much of anything they apply, which way they twist, what they throw at it, nor for how long they just let it sit to cure.
What did that other chap say? ". . . the centre cannot hold . . . "1.1
Craving redress against an intransigence that insists no wrong has ever been done to them, the rebellious, rucksious schoolboys continue to rev their engines and hoot and hoot in their attempt to brandish bravado over the angry mess that jeers any future they might guess at for themselves, and when there’s this hard, harsh, garish, incessant, staccato stab threatening debate against the serene subtlety of lively, sustained Birdsong - it’s not possible to write. Where, moments before, words were accelerating at a speak that might mean something, the pencil stalls, amnesiac.
They’d been going through some difficulties. Considerable. Unbearably, intolerably painful really. Religious law had additionally trussed his childhood already marred by a psychologically ruthless and brutal parental context, so, yet another fully, pre paid-up mortal, life force prior deducted, embarking essence deficient on the serious trip of the business of living.
She had squirmed out of this specific, particular, exacting extraction and toll and fortuited to proceed, at least, with a soul sensing the real prospect of being whole.
On into adulthood, spinning a cycle of firing, trying, seeking, ceasing, releasing, continuing, he’s aiming to get just one more sound soliloquy smoothly into the software project, having reconnoitred transition to yet another I.T. interface; edit the previous track, audition the latest, mix the next, get a new vocal take, at least two days, or more, no, maybe, rather, just capture the fresh tune that’s intruding, clear out some head room, or, redo instrumentation for, which one? Which one of the many compositions that have insisted on playing out from inner realms - and the car tax is coming round and it’s getting tight, and it presses.
She wants to run lyrics, she must rehearse tonality intervals for the take, but she’s sitting with some thoughts translating into text; she truculates on the demeritous debate of using first person, or third and then she notes, lurking, a learnéd sneer that leers at naivety when, so yearningly, on top of it all, the words emerging want to slip-slide a sidewards skip through multiple pronouns and suddenly, a prompt to pre-empt rejection turns her into her own, reflexive, hypercritical schoolmarm.
Anyway, one of them has to drop what they are doing, stop. See to things. It will take at least half an hour to legibilise the phone book in order to make a precursory call:
". . . yes, hello, in connection with car tax?"
The writing has come to a halt. Instead, she’s surfing. A link to support to get through what they’re going through.
By now everyone knows, everyone’s heard, it’s hit mainstream media, the grotesque suffering that 'was' going on behind collusive walls and closeted institutional doors. It’s bad, very terrifyingly, sickeningly bad but, there’s salve in hearing the horror. Hearing means it’s been nabbed, light has shone into the darkness, it’s out in the open, marchers are marching, protestors are protesting, there’s defiance, ‘no’ is resounding, giving comfort against the obvious, obliviously cruel, dehumanising crime: third party abuser stands accused by abused accuser and everyone can walk on, on reassured ground, in a measure of vindicatedness, that it’s come-uppance time. But deeper sight pools are stalked by the vision of many more silent millions, what about them, treading interminable, infernal trepidation of private, inner stealth, lest they must accept to confess the savage scourge that they are on themselves and everyone else, because they were taught to concede to the belief that they wreak damnation when they hear the primordial urge speak a fully functional call to encompass the entire fullness of life itself.1.2
He’s talking, she types full speed to catch all he’s saying:
". . . threat of eternal death planted into you, a daily pall, over you, you live with that your whole life, no matter how you debunk it and try to move away from it, that place is cellularly built in. It’s the first place you go as a tiny person, you’re in awe and you’re literally afraid of the looming masonry, you’re afraid of the visage of the people that are the officials of this scary masonry, you’re afraid of the changes that come over the people leading you up the steps to go there, then you get to a place of understanding, ‘no, I’m good’, like a saving of yourself from the fear of the wrath. So you have now accepted and gotten used to those threatening visages and masonry and the inconsistencies of the people who make you go there every week without fail and you’re going along just innocently fine and your biology becomes the threat of eternal death. So you start by being totally open within yourself, by saying, it’s not really there yet, you have to identify it, a growing fear that you are entering into the inevitable passage of damnable transgression, and then you get to the place where you realise you have to do something and you trust it - the building, them. Even though you’re afraid, afraid to death, you go through the experience of exposing yourself. The very first time cannot be anything other than total self-loss, the visage knows you, has watched you growing up, the screen cannot hide you, it’s too thin, it sees you anyway, so, complete blood thumping in the ear, ‘cat got your tongue?’, naught in the throat, jelly head to toe, total diarrhoea, it is the moment when you have to say those two little words. ‘Ah’ is the reply, ‘you have arrived there, it is time’. But this is for salvation’s sake, because ‘it’ has made it totally clear that there is eternal death, so, you rise, solidified soldier and walk out of there totally vacated, completely compromised. Until then there has been an escape, like you’ve been hiding in the eaves. Now every time you get there you have to, but you can’t, but you must, so you do it and you do it and you do it and you do it, it’s like you close your eyes, hold on tight and jump off the edge. It’s like getting used to suicide, until a reasoning comes to yourself. Like a moderator you say to yourself, ‘I’m really so bad that I can’t kick this, I’ll have to go back’; by now you’ve gotten used to that initial death experience of exposure that buys salvation, so you’re building on that total death experience, so you are already totally dead. Layer upon layer upon layer, how many times, building on being vacated and having to come out and be and find a ‘me’. You can’t."
"Did you get hold of them?"
"I finally got the right number. But they’re closed now."
"Will you remember to phone tomorrow?"
"Yeh . . ."
"OK. Do you know roughly how much it is, where they are, those long queues right?"
". . . no, yeh . . . "
"This tax thing back home’s different right, it’s just third party disc once a year and it’s much cheaper, there’s not this roadworthy certificate test thing?"
"Yeh . . ."
"- but the insurance is separate and it’s sorted, it’s paid right?"
"Yeh . . . "
They’re hooting again, and she’s wondering if the confessional is still doing it to them. She wants to walk over all schoolmarmish against their brash, into their social unkempt, to ask them, ‘are you youngsters still forced into going into the confessional?’; and she wants to order them, ‘stop hooting and switch off that engine!’ - transfixed by the unexpected candour of authentic authority, fingers automatonly turn the key in the ignition. ‘Listen! I implore you. Can you not hear the Birdsong? No, listen! Seriously! Tug your ear lobes - trust me, I’m a teacher, it really works - the lobes? It’s those fleshy parts of your ears that hang down on the outside - yes, go on, really PULL them. Do you hear now, quiet! Still! Tula!1.3 Listen!’ And there’s this dreamy, self-requited, nirvanaesque that spreads from their eyes, out, down, across their mouths, into their softening lips and there’s magical, miraculous transformation and their lives are changed, forever . . .
. . . they’ve burned rubber in a screeching pull off.
Through her open car window Birdsong filters back through forethought and the stalled pencil lurches into recall:
". . . does religious imprisonment get everyone like this? Or has it got to do with what’s reinforcing it in ulterior shadows? In the home. Parenting. Parents. A rug out from under feet maliciousness. Intentful. By consciously unconscious design. Or, is it unconsciously conscious?
In the bloodline, in the family, parental or sibling envy, jealousy of one born innate with heart, original creativity and genuine integrity. So they get the pitch, the tar treatment, identity painting, they’re bad, wrong, inept, suspect, incorrect, sulky, negligent, they’re dismissible, a heretic, someone who’s low down, of criminal element , , ,? Their realness, their uniqueness, their merit? It recedes, cast into shadow and they’re framed, falsely in the gallows, made to carry the blame for those who have truly desecrated the hallows. Just narrowness that denies, there’s nothing justifies ugly duck, black sheep syndrome anymore.
It’s widespread for sure, but undercover, because those inflicted are restricted, isolated, afflicted with loneliness; no scope to raise positive exchange in the squared away interchange of social engagement; but, by furtive aside, people will confide when they recognize the sore hiding in the self of another."
The cops had nabbed the car in a spine-curdling, midnight city blitz, with the two of them coming unsuspectingly into its wake from an important rescue mission where a lot was at stake. Now he’s in a neighbouring town, off selling sponsorship to raise the car tax and pay the fine, for the same reason he didn’t get to pay in the first place and for the same reason he’s out selling and not in the studio.
The pencil pauses as she looks up and looks out. The parking lot is beautiful. It is strange. That a parking lot is beautiful. But it is. She feels a peace and space. The trees stretching up from the rock wall in front of the bonnet hint at a mystical, little woodland waiting to be explored just a few steps away, away from the bustle, the car is safe and sealed and anonymous and warm inside because there’s some sun, and because there’s Birdsong and because the pencil has scribed while brash boys are expected home to the blue rays of TV Time shining compliance with automated obedience through every street window.
notes 1
1.1 William Butler Yeats, poet, the poem: The Second Coming
1.2 see Leo Rutherford, http://www.redicecreations.com .mp3 download
1.3 Tula! - from southern African languages, meaning ‘shush up!’
articles 2 - 12 to follow when blogger's static page facility has been pondered . . . .
