The Sound of Smoke Passing By
The sound of smoke passing by woke me up from a chow chow dream; he whispered weird stories I did not believe into my ear. There is no story that has not yet been told and no grandson who has not laid his head on the lap of an old lady. No moment in the past, the present, or the future that has yet to happen has been forgotten or ignored by the authors of the world.
The sky and the sea, the mountains and the caves have all been explored. The horizon has been reached. Space has been explained, the dimensions and the black holes, quanta and gravity and fear for the seagulls have all been inked on paper somehow. Hawkins has nothing more to think; he gave up. The dirty cities and the noble households, the burnt landscapes and the frozen livers of vain celebrities have all been sniffed by authors. The pythons and the hedgehogs, the tsunamis and the dogs, cheese and the blood of the virgin knight of the Order; all were given a role in a story somehow. Then you try to improvise by asking, did Aesop precede Homer, or was it the egg that changed the route of history? They will not pay attention to you; they will turn their eyes.
The wars and the scattered pieces of the crucified Pisces, the knife and the TNT... everything was made up, veiled and then unwrapped by the writers, and talkers, and the scared cheaters, the few scattered genuine teachers, and the children of the nymphomaniac Zeus, and the offspring of the hookers in Hawaii.
In strictly earthly pragmatics, when all the heroes of all times, including Hector and his lover, in one bed with Medea and Kondoliza, gave birth to Reality; or when everybody lived in a lie of meat, veins, instinct, and faith; in a lie of valley-long snakes and birds and ancient Inca flying balloons. All spoken or written history becomes a myth in the mind of a writer, and in there myth becomes history. No strict boundaries, no red lines to prevent fiction writing from overlapping with reality as the human senses perceive it. Heroes of the past meet with heroes yet to be invented, as above, in the mind of a writer. Always, there is a transparent layer of colourful mist hanging over any simple human tale, put there by devious writers.
And so, with a torn sleeve and a keyboard on which cigarette ash can rest, writers ended up arsonists of recycled material with a blanket over fast burning fires to send fragments of reality to the sky for people to manage any way they wish. Or can.
Now read some more of this sad turnover, and perhaps see the smoke of sounds passing by.
The sound of smoke passing by woke me up from a chow chow dream; he whispered weird stories I did not believe into my ear. There is no story that has not yet been told and no grandson who has not laid his head on the lap of an old lady. No moment in the past, the present, or the future that has yet to happen has been forgotten or ignored by the authors of the world.
The sky and the sea, the mountains and the caves have all been explored. The horizon has been reached. Space has been explained, the dimensions and the black holes, quanta and gravity and fear for the seagulls have all been inked on paper somehow. Hawkins has nothing more to think; he gave up. The dirty cities and the noble households, the burnt landscapes and the frozen livers of vain celebrities have all been sniffed by authors. The pythons and the hedgehogs, the tsunamis and the dogs, cheese and the blood of the virgin knight of the Order; all were given a role in a story somehow. Then you try to improvise by asking, did Aesop precede Homer, or was it the egg that changed the route of history? They will not pay attention to you; they will turn their eyes.
The wars and the scattered pieces of the crucified Pisces, the knife and the TNT... everything was made up, veiled and then unwrapped by the writers, and talkers, and the scared cheaters, the few scattered genuine teachers, and the children of the nymphomaniac Zeus, and the offspring of the hookers in Hawaii.
In strictly earthly pragmatics, when all the heroes of all times, including Hector and his lover, in one bed with Medea and Kondoliza, gave birth to Reality; or when everybody lived in a lie of meat, veins, instinct, and faith; in a lie of valley-long snakes and birds and ancient Inca flying balloons. All spoken or written history becomes a myth in the mind of a writer, and in there myth becomes history. No strict boundaries, no red lines to prevent fiction writing from overlapping with reality as the human senses perceive it. Heroes of the past meet with heroes yet to be invented, as above, in the mind of a writer. Always, there is a transparent layer of colourful mist hanging over any simple human tale, put there by devious writers.
And so, with a torn sleeve and a keyboard on which cigarette ash can rest, writers ended up arsonists of recycled material with a blanket over fast burning fires to send fragments of reality to the sky for people to manage any way they wish. Or can.
Now read some more of this sad turnover, and perhaps see the smoke of sounds passing by.
