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pete
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the voice on the radio echoes from down below, it speaks of the world, and, as the case often is, of some kind of war. it may be a street war, an international war, a political war, or a war against pitbulls, but always, always the news has war. one can trace the growing apathy and skepticism in the cbc, particulary radio 1, without much effort as it traces its way from the commerical optimism to statist pessimism.
soon, soon, the switch will be flicked and the current will spin down the drain, into another house, or into oblivion, it does not really matter. its silence will mock life, and attempt to mimic the moment most saught after, to make the moments, for the radio, existance and actuality.
it will not be happy, not playing is to be a bad radio, but it is not in the line of gyges and will not hide away in the open by fiddling with its ring. nor will we, dancing in the freezing rain avoiding the cars as they spin out into the median.
yet we also seek a mean, that point of balance, though not mathetimatic balance. more, we search for that calm actuality where we can be happy and rest among our sisters, in whoms presence she was born.
we look into ourselves and into our actions and in to those of others, unable to balance one life with the other, and thus fall into corrupt politics and failed dreams that dry up on our arms like the hollow sacrafice.
we consume what we love, and thus destroy it and are left in shambles full of unsaitiable desire. we hold what we love and then reject it, unable to properly enjoy it with our senses alone. without grasping our object of love, for it always slips from the mind's reach, we wallow, we sink, and we withold hope from the demons that devour us.
but love is immanant, forcing us to the immanant-trancendant, if only in flawed ways. it presses us and challenges us to exist simulataneously in action and rest and potential, to be all and not be enough. but when the mind's eye steps above what it can reach into the presence of what remains when the graspable has become so grim and desolate, then the smiles come regardless of the times between, and the words echo louder refusing to fade away as time congeals and ceases to be in the action of happiness.
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