understated alchemies (11/Sept/18)

galleries, places to indulge mutually-assured anonymity, that’s why I spent time there, libraries the same, where shared solitudes can be found and those who haunt them inhabiting unchecked where the only expectation is do not disturb, leave it as you found it and leave nothing of yourself, museums too, all hallowed halls outside time back which laps tidal at the doors but isn’t itself allowed ingress… truly shared spaces when others have been and are being whittled away, pulled sometimes literally from under our feet these quiet largely unassuming bastions of quiescence openly offering a place to unburden, escape, to interrupt the daily noise… and even though there are others there you can just be one… just be… they hold an air of indifference to the world outside, even though of they stand other, a balm to what they may even hold in books or paintings or artifacts but in themselves undemanding of anything from you other than to be there… they challenge but only by choice, embracing all without favour, discrimination or judgement… they all exude an understated alchemy as natural as breathing…

© 2018 robert greig

trace (3/August/18)

what will happen to all these words, these words that sometimes I can’t even be bothered to press the key hard enough to bring a letter into existence or hold the pen long enough to end one and begin another?… few write something that last beyond the pages they are scribbled on… few have a song, poem, book that years, decades, even centuries later still has a life, is remembered, repeated, reiterated, reinforced through sharing, passed on, passed down, passed around… most will just fade away into somewhere less comfortable than obscurity… do words exist when there’s no one to read them?… words here but not here having been released into the wilds of anonymity never to be seen, heard of, quoted, read despite time spent in birthing, nurturing them… is it enough that they’ve been written at all despite not knowing as to what end, or do they need assurance, an audience, listeners patronising its very metre and form, a some one to become more someones and more someones… is it enough to be conjured into existence only to leave not a trace?……

© 2018 robert greig

all in a day’s bleak (17/May/18)

I found a book among the books, its title spoke to me as did the first page when I opened it door and peered inside… on any other day I may not have noticed it as such among the piles and rows of spines that lay or stood or posed in lean-too pose each holding one another up showing just enough to tantalise the wandering eye…
… I’ve read a lot of books over the years and this’ll be just another journey, I even pondered recently making as comprehensive as possible a list of all the books I’ve ever read but as I began mentally listing them the list grew exponentially and kept growing with a gnawing worry of its value unless I managed to remember every single one and being there’s close to no chance I feasibly could without forgetting one or two or tens from the list… it would be all or nothing, anything less just wouldn’t do despite my proclivity for making lists, being more than a bit of a listomaniac… hence this was one list that wasn’t going to happen….
… lists are the perfect foil for wasting time, though whether it’s wasted could be debateable, as they say if it makes you happy then it can’t be that bad, they are an ideal distraction, especially when the only word worth describing ones state of mind at the moment is bleak….
bleak
… the sound a lamb with a speech impediment makes…
bleak
… that shape-shifting mole that appears on your skin, lingering then mysteriously vanishes after which no one ever believes you had it…
bleak
… a blink that goes wrong becoming a stuttering eye twitch for the next five minutes or so yet imperceptible to anyone around you who again don’t believe you and think you’re just being a cheeky flirt…
…… what’s for breakfast?…. I’m glad you asked, porridge of course……….

© 2018 robert greig