Art (c) 2005 D.K. McDonald
Liquid Crystal

I was born for love of a friend. The sorrows of life came from resistance to rock-like nature; joys of living came out of friendship. Blood rouses me to keep eyes awake; flesh is prone to inertia. War is constant in a mind ready to break like a cup held by a string in thin air. Fate is a string and the body a cup in the wind. One thing a torturer cannot confront is fragility. Reality is domain of the torturer. Intoxicated with power of being the torturer is destined to break the cup of becoming. Torture frees the body of fragility. The suppleness of life is replaced with death-like hardness. Body surrenders to mind. Mental destinies are tangible. The torturer's genius aims at possessing the real. Torture like love is an invention. In acts of torture imagination declares its mastery over will. I will as divine right my oneness with others. As tenderly as music bears silence I bear the cup of my friend's body.

The traveler was all too eager for the journey to end. Every platform has its share of waiting faces. You wait for nothing but you're worn out with pity for all creatures that wait. Each time you come across a face you wish to break down on your knees and beg forgiveness from the great unknowing for having failed a face that is not yours. You must die as all faces that change trains because a thing called home waits for them. Perhaps pity dies with you as well. There is no pity outside you and me. Yet I find it hard to believe that stone, water and cloud are untouched by feelings.

It needs strength to talk of weariness. Joy must not know decadence. The one who did not understand kindness did not know what it meant not to be a victim. Kindness is impersonal as a hand; kindness is personal as eyes. I feared I was dying without knowing you outside my thoughts. I blocked the mind. I forgave the body. It could be that I was asked to be the bearer of a form. How could I love you unless I knew you in some timeless space!

Renunciation is art that life imitates. History is silk made out of the body of a worm. I live half a life. If I played a game of dice with the gods I would choose to lose - that way I preserve my integrity as a loser. It could be a fever that exhausts me or love I bear images. My bones given to aging I cannot feel presence. A light fever and I am detached from walls. The pain of another being is real. The mind is at war with a world that mind created. Forgiveness brings me toward that which is not mind. Thus I know you are in the opalescence of green shadows.

Living is an afterthought to a preconception. Bodies flow into bodies leaving emptiness behind. The heart is a river in summer's rancorous heat. Water merges with light to come back as rain quenching the parched throat of lands. Perhaps love was made and emptiness realized. Never ask the bed-maker if beds are real. If bed-making is not a result of habit lovemaking is. I was trying to reach the core of what I am - the sea in the coconut. Ignes fatui are ligatures tying me to habit. I could use a horse rider's habit to come out of the nunnery of chance - a chance that I believe I've made like one makes a fire to keep warm in a forest at night.

The imperious gesture failed. Time weakens vividness of black eyes. What I'm used to is iteration of a tune that comes with rain. Childhood is recursion. Atavism clashes a quaint will to perform. If sleep is a possibility who ever has chosen to wake. I hide in the breast of another body; the desperation to forget is natural. Wave parts from wave descending into a crimson bier of a white sea.

With a shirt ready to tear I give myself to eyes. Art is no painkiller if you see a child sucking hard dry milkless breasts and the mother impoverished as a tree stump. If it wasn't blood that made the rose red it might be the suffering of those who deserve better. The humanity of the poor is history rewritten as resistance. Real people in their individual selves take away the futility of ideas.

What beckons is not glaze of an eye but whiteness of hills leaning against the horizon. Everything outside me is the soul of a being. Some things death can resolve. One of us leaves the room and there's peace on earth. Vanity has the silence of a shipwreck. Reason is the power to punish. I'm an acolyte to a blind fate leading me through fire and ice. If your feelings are sacrosanct then it is fair that I go down the valley to find that speck of dust that mothered the universe into being. One half of my life is given to fighting battles without victories; the second half I must come to terms with words that are a waste of breath. The silence of a mutilated self is barely audible. The mind cannot do without ritual. My capacity for change is limited to beds. The friendship that means death is the body renouncing its claims over reality.

You can't expect time to bend like a river or spaces lend their jaws to the unscrupulous dentist called language. If we weren't fond of imaginary states perhaps we might be fonder of the blade of grass where the dew stands aloof like mirrors do in bedrooms. Where was I when the world began? Wanderlust is human. To wait to give is equally human. Life is prolonged in a hospital. At home I contemplated the passing away of the stars. The days between seasons when winter walks down the aisle with spring are my favorite ones. The determination to brood comes from the void of words. You did not need a word called 'pink' in order to know dawn. But rain needs the smell of mud and dancing feet cannot do without music. Something of the other had to be there for the eye experience the colors of madness.

Music by Paul A. Toth
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