In case you haven’t noticed yet, there’s a little widget on the left sidebar with my twitter updates. It took me a while to find the damn thing useful (considering I already have a myspace, a facebook, a youtube, a vimeo and a tumblr acount) but I finally did.
I’m mentioning this now because I don’t want you to miss the last two updates. I find it a bit strange that Moby had to seat through a David Lynch lecture in order to realize that an artist must create without “market pressures” but I won’t go into that. Let’s just rejoice in this encounter and what came of it. Perhaps I’m overreacting but in a world where you see people selling out everyday, it’s really good to see someone going in the opposite direction. And, for what I’ve heard so far, I have to say I like it.
shot in the back of the head (video directed by Lynch)
There was a time when eyelashes met eyelashes and the silence they spoke filled up the room like an unsung lullaby that kept my eyes closed and your heart asleep.
It doesn’t really matter how many shades of blue the sky wears before she steps outside. It doesn’t matter how many fires burn within the sun, invisible circular fires that call upon me day and night. We build houses. We call them our own. Then we wait. Then we die.
There was a time when I could speak your name freely and rest my head on your dreams until they became my own. Now there are only nightly visions of unwanted future days and a voice that forces me to leave, your own voice as if it were mine.
“A trip around the world with Phileas Fogg,” you said, and then you laughed and then I laughed and then we talked about hot air balloons and I always thought you’d take me with you but you didn’t. Somehow you climbed down from your tower and you were gone, gone in every way that a person can be gone.
There is no more earth beyond these shores, no sun beyond these clouds, no land to cross, no sea to drown in. The end has come to me like a gift, like wings to fly or tongues to speak. It is not death. It is something darker, something older than time itself. Something like love.
These familiar landscapes attract me still - concrete and silent desperation. All my memories are scattered around like ashes, memories of you and of the silly things we used to do.
September, 2003
(I have no idea if I ever posted this or not but I found it on a pen drive just now and felt that it still made sense.)
