On being unfinished

One of the reasons I love poetry is it’s ability to address and communicate in-betweens – the moments of change, the processes, the insecurity I always find trying to explain human experience and its correlations to reality with mere speech. We were chatting about this the other day, and one of the most obvious examples is Columbus and how he “found” America, thinking it was India. Within his little bubble of experience, it was a new world – but it is sad when one human experience begins to define the world for others, as well.

Of course it happens in smaller scale more often than on the scale of finding “new worlds”. It’s the moments when you sit talking shite about someone, and through your bad experience of this person you make others more likely to accept that that experience would be who they are. Or the moments when you are enthusiastic about something you just realized and explain it to everyone as if it was the first time this has ever occured. Or when theatre-makers, myself included, describe their projects as “something no one has ever done before” when it should be “something I have never done before”.

And it’s fine. Most things in life are totally fine. It’s very human to live through one’s own experience, and you should never try and get rid of that. But I think that the more we remember that is ours, that our firsts are our firsts and our quarrels with others are our quarrels with others and not how they are, the more we find self-harmony – and become able to accept the insecurity and quirkiness of the world, and see other people as unfinished processes we all are, as well as our selves. For me, accepting that rawness is accepting growth, and embracing life – as my therapist once said to me “if you would be ready, would you be alive anymore?”

Busy day

26th of November has been a rather busy day – I’ve been talking with the graphic designer of my upcoming book, made calls over some other productions (two of my plays are being produced currently) and then accidentally ended up taking a long walk instead of a short one before enjoying Coney’s The Magic Trick , a performance event online. I had lots of fun with that one, and might work with a poem related to it tomorrow.

However, I only got around today’s blog post at 11pm, and my thoughts are quite scrambled. Full of wonderful sentences but none of them seem to make any sense. So, the following poem is completely unedited collection of whatever springs to my mind at the precise moment of writing this.

There were avalanches of butterflies
above us as we,
upside-down, stood on the downside of the clouds
like raindrops waiting for the go
to fall.

I wanted to let go
to surge into that colourful mess above our heads
but the raindrop next to me was terrified
there were tsunamis of flowers on top of us
and hurricanes of sediment and ground

beneath our feet, the gentle white
turning heavy and gray because we were
afraid now.

I fully support men in suitcases

I want to make it known that even if this poem seems to indicate I had something against men in suitcases (not to be confused with me with suitcases), I totally believe in the power of imagination and this poem rose out of the thought that if, indeed, there was a man in a suitcase, how would he have ended up in there?

Feel free to comment any suggestions!

Are seashells skin? Try reading today’s poem fast aloud, I dare you.

Themes which I keep thinking – how much do we need because we are too vulnerable for the Earth (shoes, houses, warming systems, electricity – and do we need them or are they luxuries we have learned to accept as part of daily life to such extent we couldn’t do without), how much our defenses – both mental and physial – take up resources and keep us from ourselves and how we all should take a habit of walking barefoot every now and then and let it affect us.

I am often scared of the impact I have on the world, even birds fly away from my existence. Yet still it seems to be a thing which is we just accept and keep stomping around like – pardon, elephants – we were elephants in a porcelain store.

So is your skin a seashell, is it strong enough?

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