Guilty.

My eyelids are feeling heavy, but I really should have done more today. Guilty Guilty Guilty as Charged. :)

Let us go and fail the trials shall we?

#117

I keep having this dream. I don't know whether it means anything or not, but it just feels like it's important.

I have a light purple dress on. Long. With flowers. No shoes. It's warm, I think springtime. And I'm walking through this beautiful green countryside. Green countryside, like Ireland green countryside. It's beautifully quiet, very few trees near the dirt road and not a person in sight. I can see a house very far away.. and I'm walking toward it. It's not too big, but not too small. Quite narrow. A vine crawls up the sandstone to rest underneath the second story window. It's fenced with a little brown picket paling. I get closer, and I feel more calm, but more rushed at the same time. Enthusiastic. I walk in through the gate, with it squeaking familiarly and I walk up the path. The front of the house has three windows. Two big ones at the bottom level, and one on the top right hand side. It's a cream-washed building. I walk into the house, and it is fully furnished. Familiar.

No one is home.

So, I walk up the flight of stairs, and take a right into the bathroom. I wash my hands. The towel I dry them with is soft and white. Then, I walk back down the stairs, through the kitchen looking briefly for a note that I don't see. I don't know who I expect a note from, or why it doesn't worry me that it's not there. I proceed out the side door, through a garden of strawberry patches. They are ripe, but small. And I head out the back gate, jumping over a small stream as I leave the property.


It's nice. But I wonder what it means.

When you were little.

I knew you. When you were little. When you don't remember. You inspired me. You disappeared to another country. Spoke things that didn't make sense to me at the time. And I played and played and played, hoping that you would hear me learning the song you told me was your favourite. I lay in the grass one day in December.. or maybe it was early January. You asked me how I was. You cared. Care. That was special to me. I had met you, for five minutes.. and you cared.

I still play. Sometimes you listen.
I listen to your record too, sometimes.
For the record.

I still cannot work out poetry.

Poetry needs understanding through the senses.
The point of diving in a lake is not to immediately swim to the shore. But to be in the lake. To luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It's an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.

Hello Sadness.

I think I have a little to talk about here. Sorry to Caitlin for using her I.P. title. It turns out that the 26th of August is a day to be put in the calendars. The second day of my stepping into big shoes. It'll be revolved around death.

There is a trial, that day. A boy who is hidden. A boy behind locks. A boy who speaks and can't speak. A blank report. It hasn't been released yet. The solicitors can't see it. We can't build a case. We can't construct an army. Make sand castles. Fortify walls. They won't let us. The low tide hasn't rolled out yet.
And it's making the blank-faced men quite nervous. Edgy. Some may have heard we love this hidden boy, and we know that it's true. I think of him often. I want to tell him, but I don't know whether he wants to know. Sometimes things are best left unsaid.

That day, they do not remain unsaid. That day, without verdict I speak. To a stage. On the ground level. While he is raised high, like a prophet or a martyr. I skulk to a bottom floor and hide amongst the cracks of the pavement, making note and talking like I have real experience. I do a terrible impersonation. My individual project makes me feel like gagging. At the beginning of this year I was excited to show my friends. Elated. Now I feel rude. Ashamed. I didn't know that this would all happen. And, I don't know whether I can do it justice.

Reality involves justice right? Where is my justice? And where is his?
Just release the coroners report. Please. Ease our minds. Take the weight from his shoulders.

Goodbye Childhood, Hello Briefcase.

Today I saw the end of my childhood on a movie screen. I cried a little. Sometimes it seems that it has come too quickly, or right on time. Maybe a little slow. But today, I am unsure where I stand. I'm not educated enough to make the right decisions, but I'm being shunted out the door. I can see a group of disgruntled elderly people. I KNOW that they are wrong. It is in their nature to pick and pry and torment, because they are unhappy. There are so many more of them now. And along will come the babyboomers. We are expected to feed them, and pay for them. You know, I would be happy to do so. I will be happy to do so, when the time comes.

As long as they respect our sacrifice. As long as they respect our views. And don't chase us half way down the freaking street because we vote for a different political party to you. Have some God Damn Respect.

Sometimes, old people make me angry.

A museum. A mausoleum.

Today I went to a house where many people live. Lived. Live. There were many children. They can't move out from the walls. Their hands reach out, stretch out for hope, grasping, tiny fists protruding from the cold cement. You'd only believe, really truly believe, if you saw it for yourself. And the children speak in wheezes because they've been covered, screaming for so long. David Irving preaches to the masses to mask their dismay. Hidden from view. Hidden from sight. Site. The sites are all but locked up. A couple remain open, but they are ghost towns. People hide their ghosts in them. I don't know whether there was more death when it was all running, or now that they are shut.

But the unreal solidness of the building speaks for itself:

COME AND SEE THE REAL THING, COME AND SEE THE REAL THING, COME AND SEE.

There is a barbed wire to keep us out. Next to this station. But I remember that there was also barbed wire to keep them in. They missed a few, the 'survivors'. But Frankl said that the "best of us did not survive". Yet there was this man when I got here. His eyes lit up the room, I couldn't help but smile. The voices of this stale room seemed to fade when he talked. The number on his arm seemed to be the only link to his solid, ghostly surrounds. He told me that:

EVERY DAY IS BEAUTIFUL.

At that moment, you'd find it hard to disagree. He grew up to be a charming man. From thin to a jovial roundness. He met his wife in Berlin I think it was. And she always waits for him.

But one thing that lingers, from that eerie solidness, from the crumbling density.. is the burning. The piles of burning books. Items of clothing. The smell. It invaded your senses. You could feel it on your skin. And the glow is there when you close your eyes.

"That was only a prelude, where they burn books, in the end it is men that they burn" Heinrich Heine.

Hello?

If you're there?

Just keep going. That's all you need to do. For you.
Just keep going.

Enough to make you.

Tonight I expressed some frustration.
Tonight my mother told me a story. Three months before Lady bowed her head, and took her leave, she met with a man. He was the third man below the Dalai Lama. And to her, he said:

You are enough.