Light Focusing System

 What feelings can I lay claim to?

You and me, so far apart from me and you.

You cannot fill the empty vessel you do not know,

And Me, I cannot bear to let it show.

The bonds and bondage are borne enough 

One could almost take them 

for locking up some  word unspoke

Yet the illusion is not one of strength 

But of stalling and stonewalling 

the inevitable buckle

Fill me as the evening star

Pours the dying light

Amongst the fingers of clouds 

Scouring and scraping and rasping and raking 

For a taste of the twilight

Fill me as the setting sun

Staves off the coming dark

Pressing and grasping for purchase

Flicks and flashes and flirty pink fronting

Dancing as a promise

Fill me as the morning beams

It’s red tongued lash

Bearing the promise and portent

Of another prolonged, drawn-out, laboured, lingering

Rambling, raving, meandering, saving

Feigned and pretended, reclaimed and extended

Exciting, fighting, delighting, despiting

Not that there isn’t perception, or pressure, or pain.

But that I can’t bring myself to feel between my legs anymore.

At various points in time I might have known what it was supposed to feel, what the expected mapping of neurons to dermis, what the convex, concave, contours were supposed to be.

But they simply aren’t.

I can’t feel between my legs anymore. 

When I feel, it shifts, when I explore, it matches nothing. 

The nothing is the unbearable.

It wasn’t always nothing, it wasn’t even always nothing in this form, but the nothing is deafening, a static snow that streams and surges as it is surveyed, slipping into a swirling mess of uncertain fuzz.

Form without definition.

I can’t feel between my legs anymore.

Neither pins, nor needles, nor heat, nor urge.

It doesn’t live there anymore.

The fogginess in the head, the tightness in the chest, the pinpricks along the skin are all memories and echoes, neighbors wondering about the abandoned house that once was full of cheer…

Where have our friends gone?

I can’t feel between my legs anymore.

But it doesn’t get in the way of life, of living, of loving.

Maybe it’s not important.

Maybe the lack of feeling doesn’t need to mean anything pathological, psychological, biological, tautological. The impact in its lack being brokenness and envy and resignation.

Maybe this is all there is now. 

I can’t feel between my legs anymore.

But it can’t wave a curtain to pull my eye, my mind, my neck

It can’t bother me anymore.

I can’t be held down, I can’t be held back, I can’t be held in a weeping mess and hoping that the feelings in my head, my chest, my arms, my legs, my skin, all find some confluence.

…..

And it is playful to be sure, the delicious repartee that brings scenes to be shifted on the tongue and savoured with the shiraz of intellectual sparring. The meaning is hearty and hefty, the meaning has notes and flavours that must be rolled round and round and round to ensure that none have been missed and in the thinking of the weight and the wit and whimsy that the satiation of the play is relished.

And what would this playing be without the intellectual satisfaction, what would the play be if not playing with the meaning?

Is dance a form of play? Perhaps a fairy floss flowing, slipping, sliding, swaying to some semblance of a conclusion that serves only to further clarify around a meaning that is not meant to vary based on the viewer's view? Would it be play if the interpretation is not in question but merely the form? Is it a game if there’s nothing to lose, to miss?

The meaningness of words has forever been a fluxing, flummoxing thing, the cycles of years accelerating where words mean less what the words of the past did. And this isn’t to give an argument for “The curtains were simply blue” but the playfulness of meaning has been lost to me as the concreteness of objectivity is used more as a hammer than a scaffold.

What is word play in a world where meaning means less? And if meaning means less, then is meaningness meaningless or simply meaning less? When the rules break in the structured games that define and architect and engineer what is or is not word play, the playfulness must come from elsewhere.

Enough, your best, belief, meaning, etc.

Things that are supposed to feel reductively soothing and seductively peaceful. Not quite thought terminating cliches but so close to them that there’s little response besides either lashing yourself to counter yet another goodhearted and unknowing and generic attempt at raising spirits or smiling and nodding and letting it pass. And it should work, because these reassurances touch at some comfort seeking portion of the brain recognizing care and reacting to it in some biologically imperative need for sociality and belonging. Perhaps tribalism is what it comes down to.

But what does anyone mean by it? You define what enough is, you define what your best is, these variables lost into the ether of language and definitions, of internality and the endless cave of shadow puppets. Of mirages and images to be presented and not judged. How dare, how dare.

Why then is it a go to response? An eager support, a scaffold to be rushed out when one is hit and hurt and lost? Especially in the not knowing of whom it is being spoken to. 

Everyone is enough, and therefore enough is meaningless. Anything is your best if you try, and therefore your best is simply what you did. When comfort cascades and covers and cuts to the core, where it numbs to the needles of life and living, what anesthesia need you to keep going?

What does it mean to simply care for a stranger, without knowledge or understanding? It’s easy in a lot of ways to love a stranger, the stranger the better, before you cross the distance to see anything besides the archetypal bright picture of innocence. Before you’re close enough for the dirt, the grime, the pain, the reality.

Pithy platitudes are found wanting, and only comfort in wanting.

It’s hard to say when the United States died.

Like many historical subjective events, such as the fall of the Roman Empire before it, several events could be the “Fall of Rome”. The fall of the city itself, the Fall of the Byzantine Empire, the Fall of Mussolini.

Some likely would say that in June 2035 when the last nation state holding on to the name of “United States of America” changed its name to the New England Compact, Some might say it was in 1999 when the Glass Steagall Act was repealed and the nation was owned by the banks, Some would point to Reagan, some would say that it’s death was a given from the moment white European colonists landed on these shores and declared them to be up for grabs.

I think most history books will say that the death of the United States of America was on March 3rd, 2026 though. Up to the day of, most everyone could say there were no signs of any immediate impending doom, the cracks that had been building just continuing to build, the Free capital class continuing to squeeze the public baccarat tables most plebians might call the stock market, divisiveness, despair, destruction decanted next to the Hennessey XO and Hibiki Whiskeys.

But that was the day that Texas Primary Election was held, as though there was ever a doubt that John Corryn would be re-elected to the senate or that the republican party would generally continue to hold sway. But the discontent between incumbents like Corryn and President Trump were only worsened after yet another devastating Winter, with prolonged blackouts beyond even the worst that 2021 had held.

The last straw was Trump suggesting that the loyal Texas National Guard be sent into Mexico to restore order as protests at the border threatened to Spill into the USA with the expanding campaign against Narco-Terrorism around South America drawing mainline troops away from the border. Even the most stalwart party liners would speak out and say in no uncertain terms that they could not let the Sons of Texas be pawned into Mexican peacekeepers. But Governor Abbott had already volunteered their guard to Trump and it would not be returned so easily.

The national guard are an impressive militia force without a doubt, but that is in essence what they stood as, and fighting cartels in foreign lands in guerilla wars was not their purpose.

The dead underlined the rebukes that came from the republicans, as did Trump’s demeaning of every serving member from Texas.

The final insult was after the primary, Trump endorsing an independent.

Texas declaring independence had been a verbal threat practically since it had joined the Union. There was a myth that it was written into the constitution of Texas, though that was never true. But despite the many times it had been threatened, it couldn’t be a real possibility.

Until it was.

Like the boy who cried wolf, Trump's calls of Insurrection fell on deaf ears, and those who did believe it, they were watching to see what response would come, if any.

And the entire response was…..

Silence.

Deafening Silence.

There is a Garden of Ideas 

Pulsing with the life of

Growth and overgrowth

Here a nursery where 

the delicate, tender, brittle

Struggle and yearn to bloom 

Against a frosty neglect

To join the groves of well-formed

Well-founded, well-forged colossi

Deep in the grooves of reasoning

Of grit, of gravity, of grounding

And the deep underground

The sacrifices of mulch

Feeding the garden with 

Tributes of past held and laid to rest

Where does a garden end

And a meadow begin?

When do the thickets and brush

Become more the garden than the fence?

Overgrowth takes root when

Tending becomes tedium

The tallest trees can stifle

Where the responsibilities, the ‘need doing’, are done

The start of the middle not yet begun

Resting on mem’ry, walk streets you knew

Not really here, not really gone through

It’s not a new chapter, it’s a whole new book

A sequel, same protag, a wild outlook

Last cover ain’t closed though, not yet in reach

The desk not quite big enough to hold one of each

The waiting

The waiting

The hope and

The dread

Must get out soon

It’s all in your head

The hope for the words on the new page

If only the last would end with the age

The table of contents, the numbers and streets

The names and labels referred to in each

What need be cut off, and what else might grow?

Restraining, retaining, remaining in tow?

Leave a limb here, and there an eye

Leave a tear here with the many you’ve cried

Leave the anchors, the chains, and move yourself on

Whether you want it or not, there will come the dawn

The waiting

The waiting

The worry

The fear

That’s the cold comfort of being stuck here.

The torture of silence

All you can get

Oh boy. Every time this. Honey, of course it’s too late. You have to know this by now. …No, you can’t ‘just’, no ‘if only’. 

…Look, come on, it's not up to me, never was.

…I know that you thought it wasn’t today, I’m pretty sure everyone conveniently ‘forgets’ or ‘just can’t believe it’, and trust me I have heard literally every possible excuse. 

…Now don’t start with that tone, come on I can’t change it, the shipment goes out to-day. Not tomorrow, we’ve got a quota to make, a quota.

…Yes I know. 

…Yes, it’s not fair. 

…Yes, I know you didn’t see the messages, so many people don’t nowadays. Look, it's in the handbook, and if you didn’t read the right one or didn’t remember it right, well I’m sorry but that’s on you. I know that it was explained in orientation.

…No, you can’t go back and do it again. Listen, the boss has rules, it’s out of my hands.

…Yes, yes I know. I’m sure you wish you could…

Everyone thinks they got it different, or the rules shouldn’t apply to them, or something. Listen, you know what, fine. Fine. If you can give me a good reason, one good reason I ain’t heard before, then I’ll see what I can do. Otherwise, you’re coming in today and no more complaints ok?

…….. Wait….. What? …. No…. You’re serious?....

Geez…. I didn’t….. Well…. Yeah I haven’t heard that one before… I’ll just double check that but…. Yeah, I’ll get that straightened out. Yeah, so sorry about that.

/click

Eesh, I didn’t realize that A.I. had gotten so advanced. Looks like we’ll need figure something out–

/riiing

Deadline, what’s up? 

01:55 - Initialize Floor Cleaner Routines

01:56 - Unit R-02 signal preliminary survey Area: Kitchen

01:56 - Unit R-01 signal preliminary survey Area: Living Room

01:57 - Unit R-02 signal Area: Kitchen Cleaning Protocol Initiated

01:57 - Unit R-01 signal unknown Obstacle Detected

01:57 - Unit R-01 signal lost

01:58 - Unit R-02 stack addition Area: Living Room

01:59 - Unit R-02 signal Area: Kitchen completion

02:00 - Unit R-02 signal preliminary survey Area: Living Room

02:00 - Unit R-02 signal unknown Obstacle Detected

02:00 - Unit R-02 signal lost

02:00 - Area: Compound - Alarm Raised All Units

No. No. No…. hmmm Maybe?

Rix pulled the rusted sawblade closer, the pinwheel of serrations molding into a canvas for a myriad of spirals, twists, cuts that might be; before it joined a growing heap of possibilities beside the formerly tied bags with a flick of a tail.

Garbage Day was the best day, when the so-called “consumers” that Rix loved to despise cast out the muddle, the mess, the machined muck of misused material that somehow never wound up consumed. The caches of dynamism, waiting to be delved, discovered, dredged, and delivered from a depressing fate.

Despite the growing horde that devoured most of the workshop, despite the designs brought in and out, Rix never missed the opportunity to clamour atop and search for what might have been missed, what potentiality lie in wait for what might be, what might be, what might be.

It won’t last forever, nothing ever does. Too much becomes too much, becomes far too much, becomes potentialities on the brink of forever, becomes clutter to be swept out with the memories of how it got there.

It’s a shame how often things never make it past what might be. 

—----------------------------------

No. No. No…. Damn…

Rix held the rusted sawblade up, the marked out spirals and spiderwebs that should have been, to be scraped and sanded and never was, before joining the growing pile to be taken to the dumpster with a flick of a tail.

Moving day was the worst day, when the Rix couldn’t help but wallow in the irony of never quite bringing these things to be. The lost projects. The lost time. The lost potential to be sorted through as to what was worth keeping, what was worth moving, what was worth leaving.

The near-empty workshop, near-full moving crates, near-finished prints, near-started designs, near-remembered tasks, near-useful ideas, near-wanted potential, near-successful fox. 

Is it right to mourn the memories of what never was? Is it right to pretend that you did some good? That you “rescued” anything from the junk heap? 

It’s just clutter. Things that must be dealt with. Things that must be removed. Things you can’t take with you. Things that never were. 

Just things.