Keep on Rockin’

keep it up!

(…) The Ideal Domicile affords its occupant an exquisite state of submerged quietude and more: inside and out it reveals a known pattern which – because of the dramatic change in scale – is simultaneously reassuring and exciting! As in nature, each Domicile contains a secret and subtle variation known only to the inhabitant and dependent upon his own corporeal dimensions and aesthetic or spiritual sensitivities. Like a sacred text that has been copied out and again by a fallible scribe, each domicile is subtly idiosyncratic.
After years of intensive reflection, one decided upon the Trochus: it is ubiquitous and extremely pleasing to the eye – bringing nothing so much to mind as the Babel towers of Ur. Its principal spine is often edged with a handsome series of protective spines, its walls so thick as to be nearly impenetrable, its inside sumptuously nacreous.
Within the confines of the Ideal Domicile, one may contemplate – with growing disinterest – the cyclical seasons of human emotion. One’s thoughts circle with minor variations and, as reverie is reduced to a cumulative mirroring of spiraling space, worldly velocities still to a snail’s pace. The universe, silenced, diminishes progressively until it vanishes altogether. The occupant is reduced to an embryo, a mollusk: to reverie itself. A confusion slowly sets in between inner and outer environments, and, one glorious morning, one awakens spiritually fused to the shell. The shell, no longer exterior to the self, becomes the self. One’s identification with the integument is complete. The spiral spells the soul’s intimate architecture; time and space – those most cumbersome of cuticles – cease to impinge upon the dreamer.

Fox was quick to see how we could use you, but not sharp enough to credit you with ambition. But then he never lay all night with you on the beach at Kamakura, never listened to your nightmares, never heard an entire imagined childhood shift under those stars, shift and roll over, your child’s mouth opening to reveal some fresh past, and always the one, you swore, that was really and finally the truth.
I didn’t care, holding your hips while the sand cooled against your skin.
Once you left me, ran back to that beach saying you’d forgotten our key. I found it in the door and went after you, to find you ankle-deep in surf, your smooth back rigid, trembling; your eyes far away. You couldn’t talk. Shivering. Gone. Shaking for different futures and better pasts.
Sandii, you left me here.