plans change with the leaves

I had set myself several tasks for this afternoon, but instead I'm thinking about Amsterdam.  People like to write songs about Amsterdam (Three come instantly to mind: Peter, Bjorn and John; Coldplay; Van Halen).  And I am thinking about Spain.  Vines crawling across white walls so bright under the sun I have to close my eyes.  Walking through cobbly courtyards beside old churches.  And I'm thinking about China, oddly ennough.  I haven't thought of that for a while.  

Fault-lines and E-texts

Discontented but confined anyway
Child of resistance caught in the net
Of complex intersecting lines of lineage.
Where truth is sugared to meet gilded
Cages of necessity and guilty pleasures.
Where the tapestry of identity and complex
Social stratification is matched
Simple statements to provide answers
Instead of questions.

[The proud young warrior dresses in borrowed feathers]

The language of facts formed from fissures,
Laughable claims of spider-queens,
Pushing postures and frameworks with sticky strands
Of gentle-gesturing and motherly prodding.

If those who came before could see,
What wisdom would we wish with?
What wishes we would want for nothing.
The kind of nothing that invades,
The senses of comfortable drones,
In the first rays of sunlight.

[Weapons are equally blunted with both tongues of fire and water, they say]

Head-spaces are cookies cut from the same mould.
There they’re playing with their primitive definitions.

Fixing

Changing,
Our understanding

To suit the ever-evolving insecurities of who and what we are.

This works in the friendliest fawning smiles
This works in the most dower bulbous flower buds
The most condescending tender peddles
The most apologetic venomous fangs of creature comforts

[We are cardboard knights in the paper-cut crisis of faith]

Statuesque stature
Peaceful peace-pipe of resting elders
Firm familial foundation formerly from foolish freaks

[Silly rabbit. Big skies, I guess, are just big skies]

Going, going, gone

Lost on the fringe of sight
Sounds as dull-distant drumbeats,
Caught in the inner-ear,
Buzzing in the back,
too deep to be removed.

[We are the weird step-children]

I see you clearly now.
Moving at different speeds,
Back and forth to back and forth,
From the peripherals to the techno-coloured real.
There is a place in my existence that is without doubt.

It is here.
It is now.

[We are the maladjusted fiction-glue that is pasted upside-down]

Leon Baptiste-Crowchild

Discontented but confined anyway
Child of resistance caught in the net
Of complex intersecting lines of lineage.
Where truth is sugared to meet gilded
Cages of necessity and guilty pleasures.
Where the tapestry of identity and complex
Social stratification is matched
Simple statements to provide answers
Instead of questions.

[The proud young warrior dressed in feathers]

The language of facts formed from fissures,
Laughable claims of spider-queens,
Pushing postures and frameworks with sticky strands
Of gentle-gesturing and motherly prodding.

If those who came before could see,
What wisdom would we wish with?
What wishes we would want for nothing.
The kind of nothing that invades,
The senses of comfortable drones,
In the first rays of sunlight.

[Weapons are equally blunted with both tongues of fire and fire-water]

Head-spaces are cookies cut from the same mould.
There they’re playing with their primitive definitions.

Fixing

Changing,
Our understanding

To suit the ever-evolving insecurities of whom we are.

This works in the friendliest smiles
This works in the most dower bulbous flower buds
The most condescending bulbous flower-buds
The most apologetic venomous fangs of creature comforts

[We are knights in the crisis of faith]

Statuesque stature
Peaceful peace-pipe of resting elders
Firm familial foundation formerly from foolish freaks

[Big skies, I guess, are just big skies]

Going, going, gone

Lost on the fringe of sight
Sounds as dull-distant drumbeats,
Caught in the inner-ear,
Buzzing in the back,
too deep to be removed.

[We are the weird step-children]

I see you clearly now.
Moving at different speeds,
Back and forth to back and forth,
From the peripherals to the techno-coloured real.
There is a place in my existence that is without doubt.

It is here.
It is now.

[We are the maladjusted]

Arcade Fire - Ready to Start

Cinematic Orchestra - To Build A Home

One of the best songs on my life's soundtrack.