Sitting in an English class as the students do their exams. They focus with their heads hovering inches above the paper. They scratch their heads and bite their pens and scratch their paper with pens and pencils. They work hard on their work and come to English class to work some more, improve their English piece by piece so they can close business deals with international clients and climb that ladder a little faster, rung by rung, each one a little shorter with their new aptitude in their new language, each rung a little easier, the end in sight, somewhat nearer, somehow clearer. I sit here and observe them do their exam and write this. I'm speeling about what I see, how I react to the words I'm writing in this pale blue box in this new site. Never used it before, I like it. Makes me do, do, do. No procrastination, no inaction, waiting for inspiration to pop up, just do. Go. What are you waiting for. There's something to be written. Always.
Now I’m seeing sculptures. Now I’m hearing airplanes. Now I’m scratching itches I can reach. The summer seems too far away. The winter will not leave. Stress adds to the fray. Stress whittles away the day. Stress sews a net and it flutters around your neck. It tangles up your steps. It destroys all hope of sex. It guarantees an audience of boring people. It eliminates opportunity. It eradicates creativity. It hampers objectivity and punctures your credulity. It is pining for relief. It is hoping for freedom. Now I’m hearing airplanes. Now I’m seeing sculptures. Now I’m breathing deeply. One Breath, two breath, three….
It's not too late. The bakers scrape. The bearded man of the hour. The baker's hat is filled with hate. The windy street is hard and black. We pierce through the fog in baker's grace. We shake up our thoughts to oxygenate the plates. We visit strangers tall and wide. We end the song with baker's descent. Strangers shake the place tonight. Baker's tap the strange delights. Bakers scream out songs on high. It's not too late to live or die. The artist posts an image for eyes. The baker stares confused and slight. The artist fights the frigid nil. The baker fights the artist's nihilism. The cookies burn. The buns are fried. It's not too late for living sights. The bus stop patrons step to the street. The baker and artist stand up to greet. It's not too late for coherent thoughts.
The scientist peers through the microscope (the biology plow; the science sickle). She wants to give to everyone she meets. But she must complete the research task in front of her. She wants to sacrifice herself for love. But she must pay off her skill-set-debt. Skill-set-debt compels her priorities. Debt mutates her value set. The cost of education disorients the quantum particles in her frontal lobe and she is working extra hours just to afford her favorite coffee-drink. Science-minister. Materialism-seller. Oh, how she awaits her salvation. Oh, how she computes her mystery data. Her father and mother are proud of her and want her to achieve. Her step-mother and step-father want her to know they care for her, too.
Sometimes things get hijacked and diminished to the point where you have to just scratch your head and weep. You blow your horn, but the vessels don’t respond! You ring the bell, but all you get are a flock of birds blocking out the sun. This, then that?Prude penny-pinchers smirk as they collect their little coupons into a pile. All I want to do is color and draw pictures of silly things and write poetry and stories that make people smile in their brains. But all this gets hi-jacked and smoted and instead I’m dodging traffic and holding my breath every minute of every day. People are sending me “Get Well” cards and I ain’t even sick. People are writing eulogies, but I ain’t dying! I’m just hijacked and a little diminished. I’ll be alright.