Where to start?
Words have become slow, thoughts like gummy. Too many days off, too much sitting at desks.
The imaginary you has evaporated, melted to become everyone again. Now I need to walk the streets in search of inspiration.
Taking in the faces, the ages, the genders, the colours. Bold heads and make up in sunshine.
The summer finally turns to autumn, but the leaves are still too green or too sick. Only some lips have turned red.
Marketplaces appear wide open, but I’m just visiting. As ever. Watching goods. Looking for depths. Following short rabbit holes, but the rabbits are out to party. No mice even.
No mood for poetry here. Perhaps I have soaked it all up already. Even traffic lights won’t work in my favour.
“Babe you got this” she has written on her t-shirt pushing a baby car. Making this a visual diary again. And people are more interesting then streets when I walk alone.
The trousers get longer, but skirts are still short, now with tights added. Is it for the offices and shops that are still far to cold? The heat is still up out here. Thirty degrees in September still.
The kids march on Fridays for the future, but not in japan. No future here. A whole country in punk mode. But the curry still smells great. My belly’s filled on oatmeal though.
I feel tired after a good nights sleep, longing for a shoulder to rest my head on. The radio proclaims: millions people need loving. Though, loving still is a good too expensive for most. Passing a couple holding hands as these words fall on the page. That, after all, is something.
Words falling on a page after pressing buttons on Glas.
I look forward to something that I know is coming, but I cannot tell what it will be. Just another something, another someone. A view, a sight, a conversation, a thing.
Water for given for free and the delivery man is not Japanese. We look at each other as we pass. Some do. I look up, offer a glance and look down again, to hammer out the next words that come to my mind.
A city bakery coming next year. In February. It’s so long away still, already advertised. And here an older man, in his small veggie and fruits shop, talking to his missus, cigarette hanging out his mouth.
I had really hoped I would not have to fight that addiction again. But here I am, fighting. A winning war, a loosing battle. First world wars: on nicotine and sugar.
Wow, a Smart. That might just be about the 3rd that I have seen in this country in 12 years.
Lovely, small side streets. They are more attractive when someone is next to you. When you see them from the sides of your eyes and chat over them.
I just love this. My daughters favourite flower. Is it still? I should ask her tonight. If I remember. Or when she is old enough to have a communications device. Does my son have a flower he likes? Yet?
Thinking of my glasses as jewellery. I don’t wear much else consistently. A ring maybe. My wedding rings from 1925 and does not fit on my fingers anymore.
Circular logic. A stoned circuit. I wonder if AI’s will be interested in drugs. Every other living thing seems to enjoy getting high. Apparently the fact of living is too much to take or rather, taken positively, everything always likes to relax, expand. Making our senses tingle. I smell first cheese, then coffee. My eyes notice lush green and people. And I think back to the romantics. Rich and healthy enough to walk Germany and dream of Europe.
Shopkeeper looking with care at the shoes in her window. I am left to wonder if these words will satisfy anyone’s sensibilities.
If no one reads it, is it still written? If no one likes it, does it still have meaning?
I will leave you with that, melting in the sun, at a traffic light that again just turned red as i arrived.