colossus

colossus, originally uploaded by Tsunami Notes.

colossus
mess tidals: they usually come in cycles, so that once in a while you are forced to have a go at restoring a clean visual space for the benefit of the already confused mind. so: take everything away, stick it just elsewhere out of sight.
the aftermath is usually three or four days of a table that looks like the mesas. you can actually sit there and write without things falling off the edges.
then, shyly, a scrap of paper or two, a book, two packs of cigarettes, a lighter, an half-filled cup of coffee, water glasses, a notebook, spam mail that no one is brave enough to throw away directly. the invasion begins anew.

and: you manage not to find things that were supposed to be important again. up until you convince yourself they were not important.

months later:
crawling through old boxes and bags: scraps of paper mostly, artefacts that the dust has long since started devouring and/or cloaking. pencil lines have turned paler. just below a drawing (a stickman about to enter in a room, the room displayed through a door, a handful of spirals in its rectangle) a quickly jolted down note, a rather meaningless thing brought back from that night's dream:

a man says: "this site is evaporating"

it's easier to stumble somehow. you also get to scream and swear once you touch the ground.

Uploaded by Tsunami Notes on 9 Mar '06, 10.10am EST.