Saturday, October 14, 2017
Don't stay in the waiting room, notes made mildly drunk
Jules Renard: 'I am never bored anywhere; being bored is an insult to oneself.'
'If one were to build the house of happiness, the largest space would be the waiting room.'
The waiting room, large, larger, largest, the waiting room in the house of happiness.
Corridors, many rooms, tiny offices, boudoirs. Sounds, children crying, the drill of dentists,
muffled voices, quarrels. Open a door, a woman fucking with the devil, half smiling,
eyes half closed, a smell of sulphur and sea water, sweat. The devil wearing a ridiculous pony tail.
Open the next, an old man in agony. Open more, a volley of shots, a wall, China, organs hurried
into a van , engine running. Another, a small doctor staring at his monitor, his stethoscope
unused, skeletons behind, a long row, heaps of files all over the floor. Go, open the next, St. Anthony with a baseball cap, trying to escape two naked girls who nailed him to the floor.
Shuffle around a corner, a parlour, politicians talking, their lips moved by spider web threads dangling from upstairs, there is a gallery, you cannot see anybody there but pale hands with blue veins throw bundles of money, and paragraphs multiply copulating on the freshly waxed floor.
You slip, bang your head, another door opens, you are in the room of dreams, you cannot leave,
you come out but you do not know the time. Your watch is broken, the hands stopped turning.
Nothing makes sense.
Go to the place for depersonification downstairs and wash. All is absurd, you are.
All is chaos, give up, do not look for happiness. It will come when you stop searching.
And if it doesn't come: nothing will be worse. Don't stay in the waiting room.
Leave the house, the beauty of flowers and trees is more than all you could construct
or hope for. Walk. Breathe. All outside is poetic presence, the scent of rotting autumn leaves,
the taste of oysters, the soft texture of moss. Make love with the sky. Discover tenderness in your hands.
Light and shadow play hide and seek in the forest, on the lake. Lose yourself and gain all.
Let go, if you want to be happy, be happy. If you want to be unhappy, be unhappy. If you want to die, die.
There is no lesson to learn. Take a rest. Don't think.
But watch out for the traffic, no need to get run over.
Forget all what you do not need, free your mind.
Use the rubbish bin provided by grace. Carry it to the fire, burn all. Don't inhale the smoke.
Sleep now.
'If one were to build the house of happiness, the largest space would be the waiting room.'
The waiting room, large, larger, largest, the waiting room in the house of happiness.
Corridors, many rooms, tiny offices, boudoirs. Sounds, children crying, the drill of dentists,
muffled voices, quarrels. Open a door, a woman fucking with the devil, half smiling,
eyes half closed, a smell of sulphur and sea water, sweat. The devil wearing a ridiculous pony tail.
Open the next, an old man in agony. Open more, a volley of shots, a wall, China, organs hurried
into a van , engine running. Another, a small doctor staring at his monitor, his stethoscope
unused, skeletons behind, a long row, heaps of files all over the floor. Go, open the next, St. Anthony with a baseball cap, trying to escape two naked girls who nailed him to the floor.
Shuffle around a corner, a parlour, politicians talking, their lips moved by spider web threads dangling from upstairs, there is a gallery, you cannot see anybody there but pale hands with blue veins throw bundles of money, and paragraphs multiply copulating on the freshly waxed floor.
You slip, bang your head, another door opens, you are in the room of dreams, you cannot leave,
you come out but you do not know the time. Your watch is broken, the hands stopped turning.
Nothing makes sense.
Go to the place for depersonification downstairs and wash. All is absurd, you are.
All is chaos, give up, do not look for happiness. It will come when you stop searching.
And if it doesn't come: nothing will be worse. Don't stay in the waiting room.
Leave the house, the beauty of flowers and trees is more than all you could construct
or hope for. Walk. Breathe. All outside is poetic presence, the scent of rotting autumn leaves,
the taste of oysters, the soft texture of moss. Make love with the sky. Discover tenderness in your hands.
Light and shadow play hide and seek in the forest, on the lake. Lose yourself and gain all.
Let go, if you want to be happy, be happy. If you want to be unhappy, be unhappy. If you want to die, die.
There is no lesson to learn. Take a rest. Don't think.
But watch out for the traffic, no need to get run over.
Forget all what you do not need, free your mind.
Use the rubbish bin provided by grace. Carry it to the fire, burn all. Don't inhale the smoke.
Sleep now.
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