do you still dream of buses?
Do you care anymore? Do you still dream of buses? Do you smell possibility among the salsa fumes and still believe that we are changing the world? Or do your concerns lie with sticky recycling up to your wrists and that fucker who keeps changing the garden to the way You Don’t Like It.
Are you drowning in great commonwealth pools of minutia? A confession - I feel like I am. The endless post to sort through sinks to scrub signs to make and junkjunkjunk to tidy. It may not be your junk, but the novel must wait until the desk is tidy. Creativity cannot prosper in these conditions, goddamit! But if not here…well, where?
We are busy people. We run out of time to question our purposes. But just maybe, we are skirting round the edges of something gigantic. Something we have forgotten. Something that is not misplaced till receipts and stroppy customers and bagel orders and backfired toilets and police visits.
What is it? Can you sense it in the midst of the madness? I think, sometime, we may have started with purposes in mind. I dream lucid dreams that we were working towards some common good. Some common genius. I’m not sure anymore. The bus is out of fuel. The bonnet won’t open. We are searching through our toolkits for hacksaws and crowbars, but we can’t get in. Something is missing.
There are some things I would like to learn. There is a ukulele that wants played and a midi track that needs recorded. The novel beckons from the corner, always. We are now on the fourteenth edit. It is interrupting my tennis matches and Sunday afternoon gin binges with its endless pleas for attention. But we’re running out of time. The funding application is due in at 5pm and that lady in the nylon sweater has been waiting 15 minutes already for her toasted pitta bread. These are things that need urgent attention. The synthesizer makes quiet pleading puppy dog eyes in the corner. I tell it, later.
Always: later.
It looks so damn sad.
Are you drowning in great commonwealth pools of minutia? A confession - I feel like I am. The endless post to sort through sinks to scrub signs to make and junkjunkjunk to tidy. It may not be your junk, but the novel must wait until the desk is tidy. Creativity cannot prosper in these conditions, goddamit! But if not here…well, where?
We are busy people. We run out of time to question our purposes. But just maybe, we are skirting round the edges of something gigantic. Something we have forgotten. Something that is not misplaced till receipts and stroppy customers and bagel orders and backfired toilets and police visits.
What is it? Can you sense it in the midst of the madness? I think, sometime, we may have started with purposes in mind. I dream lucid dreams that we were working towards some common good. Some common genius. I’m not sure anymore. The bus is out of fuel. The bonnet won’t open. We are searching through our toolkits for hacksaws and crowbars, but we can’t get in. Something is missing.
There are some things I would like to learn. There is a ukulele that wants played and a midi track that needs recorded. The novel beckons from the corner, always. We are now on the fourteenth edit. It is interrupting my tennis matches and Sunday afternoon gin binges with its endless pleas for attention. But we’re running out of time. The funding application is due in at 5pm and that lady in the nylon sweater has been waiting 15 minutes already for her toasted pitta bread. These are things that need urgent attention. The synthesizer makes quiet pleading puppy dog eyes in the corner. I tell it, later.
Always: later.
It looks so damn sad.
posted by Jane at 9:57 pm
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