An other day

To sleep a day and awake and not know what to do is

what is the beginning of a new beginning

to the end of the end

that comes after the beginning.

That is what that day is.

 

The day that I woke

to own the beginning of the beginning

of the end and went to the toilet

to begin the ending of the end.

It was that day

 

I got caught

in the vortex of repetition

and unwitty regrets.

When no one was home

during the day

 

I still kept the music soft.

When I cooked breakfast in my pyjamas

and only washed half the dishes.

When I was cold and I could see the sun shine outside the window.

That was one of those days,

 

those days that pile up,

unremarkably pile

up to constitute an unacknowledged

flavour of consciousness.

Like stock time.

 

Just the nutrients of time:

Just that it passes.

And the unwritten letter

stays. A promise of another day,

another day that is a high note.

 

One of those days.

near the beginning of a beginning,

even if it’s a short beginning,

that ends before you notice it. It’s something

you remember to remember.

 

Then there’s these days.

Of memeless meanings.

Meaning

I am here again.

At the same beginning to a beginning

 

of an end near the end of the end

that comes after

the beginning and

before the real

end.

 

The other one

I could find a million nuances for how to improve me and influence my life,
as though, if I could just identify that one—like The One, the love—
I would know, it would know and that would be that.

But considering how in almost 29 years I have not grasped one,
indeed come closer to wondering if it is The One,
I can safely deduce that the search itself is what has come to complete me.

After all, as another I says, one can mostly rely on being this happy
—no more or less—for the rest of adulthood.
We grow into stasis.

That’s why adulthood is so forgettable.
It’s the longest period of the same mood one has in my whole life.
And now one realises that during prep time, adolescence, I had no idea.

I still don’t always like to get my feet wet on the beach.
And sometimes I can handle leaky toilets better than other times.
It just gets as good as it can.

I can be grateful for that.
I can be grateful for getting more than I thought I might
have or could try for, and didn’t.

In that sense, I’ve failed to dream big enough.
In another sense I’ve surmounted just enough to get here.
So, where then?

Published in The Common, 22 January 2013 

0_large

What want wants

The past tense of “one” is want

– as in a person or identity.

But also the tense past of won.

As though want could have won the prize,

but now want only wants in an indefinite space of continuous past tense.

 

Because surely want is what want doesn’t have.

And when want is in its continuous state of eternal past,

there is very little want can do with wantself,

always plagued by some possible chance overlooked.

No more than with desire, sure. But still, it’s consuming.

 

Not that want necessarily feels it all that often in this world so geared towards consumption:

want barely has time to want, before want is pre-empted and saited.

So if want asks wantself “what do I want?” there’s hardly an answer

in this moment, right now, clinched by the cerebral faculty of I.

 

And if want pauses before want answers,

like watching a clock

(which want is inadvertently doing, ticking off the seconds with words),

want becomes infinite and neutralised:

As though, really, ipods and cellphones and silk dresses and KFC can all go to hell.

 

Because the infinite want can never be depleted by such infinitesimal chips.

Because want is not object-specific in itself,

it only becomes phenomenal when Ogilvy or Hunt or Saatchi get involved.

 

What want does require is some last grain of hope in possibility.

Because otherwise “I want” becomes only “I won’t” –

and that exists quite finitely in the future.