Reading Rumi, thinking of Bruce Chatwin’s Songlines, the quote where he talks about poetry and pedestrian language being words shorn of poetry, poetry the language of nature, what would a modern day Rumi sound like?
Is my heart a fist clutching cash
Sit in a chair and wait for people to arrive / think about where pleasure is for you.
[Bart notices that the factory has collapsed.]
Bart: Ah, jeez. Milhouse, how could you let this happen? You were supposed to be the night watchman!
Milhouse: I was watching. I saw the whole thing. First it started falling over, then it fell over.
On Saturday night, as midnight came and went, I watched my 22 day streak on Duolingo dissolve. Even lost five lingots I’d wagered on keeping-up a seven day streak. Wasn’t that bothered.
Walking home today, I remembered this writing streak, and wondered if my commitment to a daily practice of writing is just further embodiment of pervasive late capitalist mindset: always be productive.
Aware there is privilege in watching deadlines and opportunities drift by. This isn’t a deadline to worry about.
Somedays, no movement is allowed.
Having a daily practice seemed like a good idea fourteen days ago.
Incredibly beddable people
Temptingly edible with shreddable skin
Bowed under the steeple
John Maus asserts that he does not eat human beings, exhorts that we should not let our mouths become open graves (a Bible reference, I think). A dictum I could do-dum.
Worm-words tumbling over teeth
Hissing falsity, wheezing into my personal space
Listen to It’s Time To Go Home And Have A Nice Weekend by Gareth Cutter #np on #SoundCloud
A three hour round trip, from North London to South and back again, for a free roll of dusty pink latex (thanks Rosie!)