The earth keeps moving but I'm moving on

Soundtrack: Heather Nova - "Everytime", "All I need" and "Fool for you", from "Storm". I love Heather Nova. I absolutely love Heather Nova. Haven't you heard about Heather Nova yet? She was once called Heather Frith and lived on a boat, sailing the seas, writing fuzzy poetry and paining pictures of orange-winged birds. Now she stands on stages playing guitar singing about fuzziness and taking wings. I recommend a try. I recommend Heather Nova. Still haven't got it, then you just won't. Still worth a try, though.

This is the result of way too much caffeine and chocolate, combined with an overdose of reading and revising and rewriting, in addition to watching a little too much sad television. For instance, I had to turn off "Brokeback Mountain" after fifteen minutes because of Heath Ledger. And I suffered real belly cramps from watching Viggo Mortensen disrupt every last inch of his existence in "The Indian Runner". I need to be more careful what I induldge in, it seems.

Moreover. And more to the point. Sometimes, just once in a while, it is the case with poetry that one gets slightly carried away, and finds oneself in the middle of something not entirely planned for, but seemingly developed on the way. I went for a walk, this evening, to clear my head, and I actually spotted these clouds that were shaped like staircases, which reminded me of something I'd heard in a song, leading me on to a train of thoughts about something I'd read in a newspaper article, about somethinge entirely different, and all of a sudden I was writing a poem about trees. Originally, yes, it was a poem about wandering amongst trees, in a big forest, and beholding the beauty of strictly arranged trunks along the roadside, and I have no idea whatsoever how that lead me on to imprisonment and honouring Jack London, with a very discreet kind of nod, but - like I said - such is sometimes the case. Also, I was watching the above-mentioned "The Indian Runner" later on, starring Viggo Mortensen and David Morse and Charles Bronson and Patricia Arquette; four of my personal favourites, of course, who'd have expected otherwise; and I just - got this chill down my spine of inspiration. Beautiful picture, beautifully shot, beautiful acting. Reminiscent of "Into the Wild", which isn't so strange, since both are the work of Sean Penn, and the former is sort of a thematic predecessor to the latter; all about lonely men, nature's forces, cold hearts. And, as a result, I twisted the poem into something that was entirelly different yet again, this time adding a whole new level of possible meanings and other connotations, and a little essential uneasiness to go along. It's not plesant, it never is. There are only two kinds of men in this Hell; there's heroes and outlaws. This, however, has nothing to with either. This is about straying. And trying to decide where to end up, whenever flight is not an option. It's about staying in the middle, always keeping oneself from swerving to the sides. It's got nothing to do with loving. It's got everything to do with love.

"Probative"
by Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, who used to be a girl living on the edge of a forest, and I know I live in a student estate. Times really do change. Trees tend to stay the same, though, unless you cut them down. Here's to chainsaws, but no massacres. Which reminds me of a funny fun fact: Dennis Hopper, infamous for his role in "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre", had a brief cameo in "The Indian Runner", also, as a somewhat psychotic bartender. Love my trains of thought. Trailing off from time to time, but keep coming back into circles. Life is a bunch of more or less inconvenient co-incidences. Rejoice!

my dearest knowing you can tell
I spend my ages roaming
through this desolated forest
even as the night elapse
and there are clouds here
in the shape of staircases
that harken back to former steps
remiss and every single trip
all over us therenext the topics
we've only been touching on
but never learnt to touch
I do recall you so consigning me
to stiller places, much to my dismay
as I beheld, outside, enfolding
all the world's commotion, my chagrin
whilst I kept straying in-between
the shading trees my route
becoming my routine
too soon
I do not know their outskirts
you would not let me hear the wilderness
when I was called for
so I elope in wonder wander round
not very far
until I hear the distant music
the wind is always singing
in these parts but I don't tag along
I'm discomforted by the guards
erect and blind and side by side
like pieces in a board game
as they pose attempting to exist
shadowy figures who knows whom is known
I understood it'd been foretold
the lines of wood the piles
that probes and hovers over me
all ready now to crumble
but I bend down to creep and I am safe

my dearest this is where I stand
the morning is delapsing
we don't come near we never did
although we lived nearby
I spent my hours running
and kept up speed into your arms
behind the rows the raging
nature's uncontrollable outcry
but it is silent here
and nothing too obscure
to guess my life is dimly set
your eyes adjust they regain sight
for writings on the wallpaper
how I tuck in and huddle up
and slouch upon your couch
with shares of sudden imagery
the waves that met the banks that purge
it's peaceful all in spite
of every moment when I'm further drawn
from this my yearning for these
desperate means to climb
to gaze a little wider out across the moor
but I'll be facing other branches only
her my ghost the only one to know who
leaves
my crush will cease in foliage of green
and I shall not uphold the world
but hold so dear whatever me is offered
constant and consistent never flinch
this time you'll do the calling
say I'm sworn for as I swear
stay I'm lorn for as I bear

you ask me who I am, and I am yours