26 October 2012

House on a hill/San Francisco

Half staring out of the window.

Green tablecloth. Green tea bag. Memory of green eyes.

Perfect level of breeze. Everything is soft and sweet. Music at a perfect volume.

Hills proliferating from here on up, houses spread haphazard but of course not really. Towns and spaces have been carefully planned and petitioned for. This is no slum. Hill houses in Jordan and Mexico aren’t like this. Hills there are to be struggled up and balanced down. Not prime real estate. Here the roofs point perfectly up, windows promise expensive views. Slope up and down in beautiful slants, simple as breath. Colours are nothing to be scared of. But there is a muteness, something traditional lurking, something silently agreed upon that fears deviation from deviation. Something agreed upon as modern and open minded. Something that makes me want to only wear black in the sunshine.

What is behind each window? What allergies, fantasies, letters of complaint, drawers of vitamins, ulcers, sunscreen, junk mail, photographs, pets, doubts, desires, clothes that don’t fit, barely tolerated people, books? House guts. Inside the black bags of Tenderloin’s homeless. Street kids’ rucksacks on the Haight – memorabilia from the family homes they run from and to. Surprise that everything is the same – something to wear, something to drink from. Joy that everything is the same time and time again. And equally different. And what really happens is only ever between people – but again, the same and again different.

From the outside a kiss is a kiss and a kiss only.
From the outside you are unlocking your front door and nothing else.
From the outside a face is gaunt and lost and only that.
Every dot is the present point of an infinite line stretching back and reaching forwards into an infinite web.

Betrayal. Actions mean as little as words. But what is produced? Languages where there are five words for one. Shades. Infinite manipulations. Repeat prescriptions. Memes. Saying I love you one million times and it being the same and different every time. Hundreds of windows and hundreds of tea cups and hundreds of pleases and thank yous.

So if not action and not words then what? If what I say and do do not match and what I say and say do not match and what I do and do do not match then everything is an anomaly, anomalous, unmappable and you will have been right about chaos. But patterns emerge. Habits too but patterns are more interesting.

A house on a hill. A leaf on a tree, a house on a hill, a kiss on the forehead, a leaf on a tree, a house on a hill.

Branches of chain stores all smell the same.

The thousandth time I’ve heard this song.

Turning to you in the morning.

The pitch of a bark.

Recognition. Strangeness. Remembering as tool. Context. Points in space. Another cup of tea. Another inhalation. Boredom. Exhilaration. Everything all at once.

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