waiting for presence

2003-08-20, 12:02 a.m.

How far do the minds of scholars stretch for the reality we can never see? because when we see the floor, it is there, a mix of dull colors and floral patterns. it is not the true floor, like hearing a piano, but never seeing the sheet music. we do not know of the half notes that are sketched on spacial paper, we hear the stroke of keys. so solid is the bread in our mouths, clinging to teeth and sucking away moisture, but we accomplish nothing more than the transference of perceived states.... solids to satisfied pallets.... parched lips kissing the glass of water; nothing more. but what lies beyond our eyes, and our nose (these liars! these propaganda machines and politicians of space) is untainted by abstraction, because even Picasso couldn't paint a quantum landscape.

i am reaching, but with a limp hand and averted eyes, something always tells me i should burn a hole in the sky so that i may finally see something natural. something tells me that the clear vision of a stranger might help me see myself better; who am i kidding, the best view is always from within. a head filled with images of new faces is like the desk of a prison warden, i am a desk that is neatly organized, but with so few images that the cherry wood becomes an intoxicant, the gloss of the rasberry red top makes for a sharp contrast to a face. wanting to become undone again, wanting to spill over the edge and be engrossed in anothers presence.