helicopters and obamaphones and you

Life can be pretty strange and you don't know what to make of it, so take it as it comes. Last night I went to bed in our beloved police state and woke up startled at 8pm as a helicopter was flying very low with loudspeakers and searching for a 'suspicious person' near eggplant alley. All the soft edges of the last polite evening have been pushed and shoved and formed into something bigger than the pushes and shoves. We are left this morning with a lot or enough or something more than nothing I guess. A thermos of coffee sweetened with cream and sugar... and I still don't know how things will work out between us, you and me, or if it will continue on and be space harboring satellite transmissions to obamaphones and tower drops. I remember when it was once chemistry. And then it was magic. That lasted quite a while but not long enough. Once you have magic you can get awfully upset when you lose magic. You want anyone who had anything to do with the magic to disappear, because they remind you of the magic you lost. And now I am left peaceful and guarded, cause if you come with your late afternoon talk show dsyfunction a-knockin on my door, I might just have to call the cops.

vasodilating in the heart of an era

Having dressed the walls and my wounds with classical music tonight, my thoughts now alight upon the exclusivity principle rooted to our being. The marrow starts to gel in the bones then vaporizes and shrieks out - a veritable night train whistle, forewarning us of the onslaught of the millenial generations. It's nobody's fault. Life just steams and marches on, stepping carelessly over the carcasses of the formerly treasured, the loved. Some of the more rock-like formations hold out a little longer. Consider the St. Petersburg Conservatory, one of only thousands of imperial-strength monuments in the world which could sing you impossible tales of a century ago, hemmed in at the waist by a sea of concrete.

'Highway#1. Bodega Bay by helicopter' - KatYa, 2016

One cannot have a delicate stomach for change. We must all harden our arteries to the passage of life, for it will divert its path from us and our microcosmic runs, either way; tastes will change, schools will shift, culture will replace itself, rejecting, celebrating, denying, judging, appreciating, dismissing, cherishing, banning, engorging, ridiculing, savoring along. I think the best you can do is love it while you last, participate in the push and pulls, and when your very own consigns you to your residue, the dripping-to-seal wax of human history, you take your place and hold there, never giving up, whilst the populace cartwheels over your back and pushes you deeper down by soft and sure palms, to the world beyond the light-wind-water-fire, into a quiet and dark place inhospitable to your past, where you may again flourish with a nitroglycerin glow, vasodilating in the belly of the heart of an era.