Paulina In B

An earbuzz in the ear. Where else? I came ashore at Flushing, the great jewel of The Netherlands, those dry islands, clawed back from the cold seas, the graveyards of entire fleets. It was middle evening and the gold of the bars which line the dockside called us in, bedraggled as we were, to drink the unsweet beer and great meals which the bar owners forced upon us. There was music there, the buzz of raucus guitar from some band with something to say though not speaking Dutch we would never know what. Whatever it was, they meant it. And now we zoom in on some small event, a meeting of man and woman, sparked across the clean wood floor as first love affair in years. I made small notes, hiding my pen behind my glass as I saw the eyes show all that indicates something deep and chemical. My shipmates say that there is God in this moment, the leap of souls across the gap between faces, lubricated with spirits and beer but I just see some evolution come to its ultimate moment, breeding something which for all its mechanical reality is just love after all. They were not beautiful people; none of us are really, but the moment was right and we were happy to have survived that small sea, that break from our own country.

We trail through the dark town, empty of anyone this late, down by the river and content to suanter, amble, dawdle, any gait that might promote delay instead of ending the evening. Where is everyone at night? Like in Under Milk Wood, we can wander the streets and speculate at dreams inside each house, the deep secrets and fantasies of all those prone, white bodies. Earcom! I see delay everywhere now, the end of something and the doorway to the start of something else. And how much annoyance is sparking from these clattering keys. I can see some spark of petit mal beginning in those snuffles over there. The void has taken you and everyone to sleep and dream. What empty space within the glue and goo of mind? Two guitars played, one in each ear, at different rates to create a great phase effect. Hear that right now, as loud as possible in the quite of this room and close tour eyes. This is music that makes you think of nothing, no sound, no light, no vision other than the sound itself.

Remember when you used to visit the loudest club possible, maybe just to avoid the speaking that would show up how bad you actually were at it? There is no possibility of any conversation then but that is how us northerners pair up now, just eyes flashing in some disco light, and there you are, some coloured hair and splash of powder is on you like a drug, a cloud of gas. No words because none are possible. This void is worse. The deep loss of something or someone you saw everyday and then is gone, completely, dead maybe but gone at any rate. And with no explanation. Just dead or dying and never visited. Burnt and vented to the atmosphere to become part of all we breathe. I want to annoy someone really badly, making as much noise as possible within that permitted. My mind speaks to itself like a child and yet I think I am in parent mode, a random talk-down to the kids in the area. This puff of smoke, somewhere just behind the eyes, belies the war inside, the fight of conscience, of common sense with slavering irrationality. It is never over, the little angry one is never banished. The music is louder now, a repeating melange of phase and minus.

All that up there is true. There is something, some spark in there which I really wanted to expand on but it remains just out of reach. It is something about the loss of the most important thing and the years of covering it up because it is not right to bring it up at mealtimes. My descent crushes me with meaning, the breaking out of confidence, the realisation of where intelligence lies in all this mess that loss creates. This was suicide and I always knew it despite not being close by to see the method or the madness. Not mine, too cowardly for that but how could we be left alone by this? What point is there to inward terrorism, the removal of self from the world? Same as there is no point to external anger. Sometimes I think the world reflects my attitude to it and I suppose this must be true. I am happy, the world seems happy. I get crushed and the world has bad things in it. Each causes the other in some never ending loop of misery and blackness. The entire universe is exactly as I see it, not others; I am just one giant eyeball linked by some nerve of evolution or creation, cause and effect. Anthropic Principle. We think we are special because the universe seems made for us, or at least this little part of it but if it was not like it was then we would not have evolved to see it. We ignore God in all these arguments because, although he might have made us he never comes around. You think yourself special because you live in a democracy and have milkshakes and burgers. That does not make you special or even notable. That makes you small and not important. That makes me small and not important.

Relativity, special or otherwise. Special means objects that are in uniform motion and relates to light speed mostly. General allows for acceleration RELATIVE of course to other things and lets us see to gravity. How fast does gravity travel? Wylie Coyote always has to wait for gravity to kick in when he runs of the edge of the Utah cliffs but of course the roadrunner has red-shifted all the scenes because he moves so fast and when they follow him with the camera, we have a paradox. Einstein always watched the Saturday morning cartoons and knows all about all the characters. In fact he appears in one once, like Steven Hawking in Star Trek. Want to but Steven's hot air balloon basket? A whole quarter of an hour. Well maybe not exactly. Define a second and even then it needs some leeway doesn't it. Oh what's the bloody point?