if light (20/Feb/18)

people always talk about half-light, well some do anyway, and perhaps not all the time but certainly sometimes, and never quarter-light, or eighth-light, or tenth-light… surely it’s tricky to gauge a moment as being exactly and precisely half-light and half-not-light, which I guess is also half-dark though no one ever says it’s half dark… or quarter, or eighth or tenth… it may be almost, or nearly, or not quite dark but never in measured increments and yet we presume we can get away with it for light… and is half-light heavier or lighter than full-on light?… if it is heavier, then that suggests dark is heavy and imposing it’s burdensome mass upon light… and how light is light anyway even if it does weigh anything at all, and is it possible for something to weigh absolutely nothing and if not then light must weigh something and is it again being presumptuous to say light is light just because it’s called light and seems to float in mid-air… but then again it can be light on the ground too where it isn’t floating so what does that make it, heavy or light, or perhaps buoyant?…… is light, I wonder, floating on air at all or is air suspended on light, held up by light however half- or quarter- or eighth- or tenth-light it is, or even dark… it’s confusing that light can also be dark and when it darkness we often say the light feels heavy, as though the dark is responsible… and dark isn’t a description of weight as light is, so perhaps dark should be renamed too ‘heavy’, but then it again feels presumptuous to presume presumptuously that dark, as light, weighs anything at all…. birds float on light so does that make them lighter than light?… and can anything be lighter than light… or am I confusing light with air and it is that air is light or dark, or light or heavy?….
this morning I woke to a fraction of light, so fractioned I couldn’t think of a fraction small enough to ascribe it, then I turned on a lamp and was bathed, slightly in I suppose half-light although the rest of the room still lurked in its own fractions of light depending on whether it was in that corner or that corner or way over on the far corner, while under the bed it was even darker, nth-light….
I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about here or if I’ve just wasted a ration of perfectly good words that I could’ve used later for something more productive…

© 2018 robert greig

wherewithallwithout (15/Feb/18)

otherwhere, elsewhere, somewhere, nowhere…
I’m otherwhere, elsewhere, somewhere, nowhere…
in anotherwhere, herewhere, sometimes therewhere while other times I’m worse for wear or worse for where I am whether that be thiswhere or thatwhere…
I’m anywhere in any wear I’m wearing at the time often bland and unobtrusive, inoffensive, unremarkable, plainer than mundane and when they say the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain I know that plain is me, flatter than the word flat can really do it justice… is this prose or I am merely picking at my nose?… depends on how you read it, or maybe not… regardless…
I am somewhere wearing some wear or other with the wherewithal to keep away from fires, fools and fashion as fashion’s never for the likes of me (however many ‘likes’ I get in the cloudwhere, the airwhere, the digiwhere, the everyneveranywhere…) as all I wear is wearisome and worn, you might call what I wear shadowear, a dressing down, down, down, deeper and down (and there go Status Quo again…) to the bare essentials, or is that bear necessities?… though not bare as that’s a ‘where you wouldn’t want to go, into the shadowhere, the shadowhere, the shadowhere, into the shadowhere, tra-la-la-la-lo, a whereabouts that’s far away from hereabouts whereupon I’d wear for art of course, art for art’s sake wherefore art tho worn upon my sleeve or sleeves but are they green sleeves?… who knows, or nose, and there I go again picking prose from out of my nose….
and what about the underwhere, now there’s a place to find yourself, not to be confused with the overwhere or even with the sharewhere, a somewhere you can share, art or fashion and why not rain that falls flat on the plain, and where on earth is freewhere, a where without, within, with all?…
otherwhere, elsewhere, somewhere, nowhere, here I am inside this wherehouse of knitted tiles and woven bricks, lacy gutters, tye-dye render, a where where I will bounce this ball against the wall ‘til clarity might clarify the words that scarify my thoughts that linger in my headwhere.

© 2018 robert greig

behind your eyes (17/Jan/18)

clatter, clatter, storm and clatter…..
the perfect night for a ghost story… the setting was set, the soundtrack composed of thumps and of creaks and of rattles and groans and of moments of deafening silence when the storm seemed to pause, take a breath and then start up all over again with equal verve and ire and tenacity……
a lot of angst to get out and it was unleashing it in squallish fashion…
clatter, clatter, storm and clatter……
‘twas indeed a perfect night for a ghost story even though none was told… though all the ingredients seemed to converge including even a graveyard that’s sleeping next door, as well as even a graveyard can sleep on nights such as these with the banging and bumping…… anything that wasn’t lashed down got lashed by the fingers of winds that slipped dexterously in and around them to use them in ways they weren’t meant to be used, everything outside these walls was decidedly restless, no doubt even the graves that shivered and shuddered sternly and stonely under their plinths and six-feet or more of earth with lichen protecting the headstones and ivy a blanket lay liberally strewn and hunkered as close to the ground as ivy could cling……
nothing walked and nothing flew and yet everything moved however unwillingly while a hundred or more of hauntings and shadowy flauntings are torn and flung with last autumns leaves like ragdolls ripped from another time that someone forgot but still lurks in an inscription inscribed on a headstone now somewhat askew just there, over there, under the holly that’s been there for years longer than anyone remembers, the holly that nobody planted yet grows unknown of provenance now tall and thickset in wintergreen leaves, protecting itself, protecting the grave from intruders or from any who dare to tread too close for comfort…
it coddles an under-darkness, beneath the night, within the shadows it gives birth to those of its own, more deeper more recessed, the kind you only will find  sleeping behind your eyes….

© 2018 robert greig