Tag Archives: rocks

Last night I dreamed of a ruined theatre.  White painted boards shot out bold lines into decayed seats, still reaching for applause. Where wings and flies once stood ready were the rocks and ice of collapse and nature taking back its own.  Most of all I remember the ice, great blue-white crystals of clean cold that seem, on waking, to have been out of place in the artifice.  Did their magnificence reflect the grandeur of the ruin’s past glory?  If I had stopped to look into their facets, would I have seen ladies in great white gowns, villains with dulcet voices, deaths and lives, triumph and tragedy?  Or was I dreaming about hiking before I found this place?

In the rubble we found musical instruments, the slides of trombones and other brass pieces still golden in the half light.  “People often go digging in those ruins”, the internet told us.  I grabbed a pair of curved metal pipes and carried them away into the light, deciding these must be seen.  Lined up in a corridor, still waiting at iron stands without music sheets, an orchestra of guitar and drum and flute and pipe and organ were abandoned together in neat rows.  “I’ve been wanting a guitar!” I exclaimed, my fingertips touching the sleek, thin neck of a brightly-colored electric number.  “Not that one,” someone said.

Stepping through the dust of the audience with the hush of ghosts, my eyes were lifted to small ornate balconies perched high on the walls.  Just large enough for a body or two.  I wondered which ones were ornamentation and which ones were real.  If this were my theatre, I would know the secret routes and passages to all of them.

Outside, other buildings, clerical and educational and sterile, retained their inoffensive paint and blocky modern lines.  Once they were only support for the ruin, now they existed in their heartless function, maintaining that life remains outside the velvet and shadows.  We know otherwise.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

False Prophets

I’m in a haze before the short drone of my electric insect tells me I’ve got a message from somewhere. I take a look. I assume a familiar position: three fingers down the left side and my thumb slips in between, propping the communicator open and opening myself for the connection.
It’s the Internet speaking: a courier in code, straight to me from somewhere electronic. The message says I got a message. Suspense within suspense. Who, O tiny deliverer, do you come from? What secret, story, strife or star, and wherefrom?

Interlude: I got friends like waves on rocks and yin and yang, and you can see us touch but you know there’s no connection. I got friends like gloryholes, we find cracks in the walls to meet where we can. I got friends like smoke in the room, twisting and curling with the air until there’s no difference and I breathe ’em in all together.

The Internet insists at me. I open. Tap tap click and it’s some damn old wave on a rock. Well, says I, I was looking for smoke. But long as you’re around and the air is clean, I’ll pound a few times and we can pretend we’re something solid. It won’t be fun but something like it.

Now there’s two people kissing in the room and neither one is me, but this guy could be me if I tried a little more or less. I wonder if they’re gonna be happy together but I doubt there’ll be a sequel. Sometimes you just got to hope for the best.

Am I cooler than I used to be but less happy? Am I happier now that I’m not so damn happy all the time? I guess it’s just easier being optimistic when your symbols are a little more relevant. On the other hand, cynics always look cooler when they smoke. And they get all the women. Well I guess I ain’t that cynical, looking at it that way.

The world gets a little better every day but only if you’re high enough up to see it all, and wouldn’t you know it I live in a damn valley

(c)2010

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Marack Friesach

Ihr Premium-Jungwagen Partner in Österreich.

Death, The Life Story

Tracing a life through stories of death. Sometimes funny, sometimes not.

sevenstarhalo

"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

Seal Matches

Stories & News

unbolt me

the literary asylum

Mugilan Raju

Prime my subconscious, one hint at a time

The Flyleaf Wordsmith

The door leading to blaring madness.