Valla Beach, Feb 24, 16
Turn off the screen, halt prayer and meditation, look up the moon is sinking.
There is suffering, there is laughter; there is boredom, there is pleasure’s rush; there is emptiness. There are guns, there are books; there are textures, there is touch; there are smells and there are sounds; there are screams, there is silence; there is milk, there is water; there are dogs, there are wolves; there is substance and there is the insubstantial.
There are eggs, there is semen; there are hens, there is some jungle left; there are eucalypts and there are languages; there are fields, there are gardens; there are weeds and there are weeds; there are cabbages and there are kings; There’s just the one photosynthesis.
There are asylums, there are hospitals; there are walls and there are soldiers; there are industries and there are fantasies; there are cameras and there is surveillance; there are ants and there are more ants.
There are telescopes and there are Black Holes; there are trombones and there is music; There are hieroglyphs, there is recognition; there is time and there is speed; there are traces, there are always traces.
There is the time you first read ‘The First Men in the Moon’ (1901), there is the first time you sat in the front room, kept for rare visitors, and watched a blurred Neil Armstrong step down in shadows.
There is the one moon, one reflection.
And by now it is light.