Tag Archives: Time

ADO #5- Sunday Summer (Spenserian Sonnet)

Sunday Summer

Remember that day with us at the park,

When you bought me ice cream

And I traced our initials on tree bark?

Curled up on a tartan blanket, we schemed

Immortal pirates plotting timeless treasure map.

But all was not what it would seem;

The clock ticked on like a timed trap.

You sighed as you laid your head on my lap

Musing on sunlight stealing through leaves on my smile,

Our music the sound of children laughter on a rattletrap.

Your kisses and touch chaste all the while.

The hours languidly flowed into time.

That day is gone but you are still mine.

By AEW

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #29

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You’re a Genius all the time

I know you have pain but let me spin something at you, just to see if you can relate.

So– I sat there once– in some blackhole– thinking of a time when I was running through a meadow—Not a real meadow—A nostalgic meadow– like the one in some axiomatic scene in some powerfully wild cinematic film where the camera does that crazy-ass zoom in thing at the same time that the camera trucks out— you know that scene–that one that feels like the moment you realise what you just inhaled was the real thing and not a waste of money—That fluuuuuuuueeeee-better than being on some rollercoaster ride moment. Or that moment when all eyes are on you and everyone is smiling and nodding in agreement. Yeah, that moment when you realise the simple fact: You got this thing down, Ace.

Those moments are like that bit of God that touches you through someone else’s lyrics on the radio. The lyrics that make you ejaculate “TUNE!” before you collapse into the cushions in that softie-sound-afterglow.

That’s where you need to be right now, yo?

Don’t be coy. Don’t be calm. Don’t be sedate. Don’t be humble. Just go. Go with it and have faith that you are absolutely fantastic–the power–the key–the foretold. You are the man with a plan–whether the plan is immediately obvious or not is of no consequence at this time. Time is but a name to what we have loads of–honest.

Think about it–that last time you were all freaking out about “stuff not happening” or “stuff being a bit of a bummer”–who knew you would be right here, right now? The accomplishments achieved thus far are a far cry more rock and roll than the accomplishments made over a year ago.

So The Man said “no” today. Maybe that is for the best. That “no” probably gives you the freedom to not worry about getting untangled from regret at a later date—like that a narrow escape I had in Mexico with not being able to find that street with that burrito man. The one that was cooking up his neighbour’s dogs, it turned out—the one that was responsible for all those people getting sick and dying. That was a wild time. Remember how much I kept whinging about not being able to have that burrito and how hungry I was. But then we went back to Raul’s mom’s house and we had home-cooked menudo instead and we woke up all copasetic and with no hangover.

But I digress.

I will not be sitting here regurgitating proverbs and conventional greeting card sayings to get you through your shit. Just remember, You are going places. Rock and roll, fool! Rock and roll! Fire up that great, massive, cerebral riff and shred that bad ass tune.

Oh yeah. Keep the beard and don’t go bald.

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Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #14

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Like Proust be an old teahead of time

There had been a general feeling of dreaming in those days. When I think back on those egregiously rambling roads against a deliriously bright backdrop of sand and sky, I cannot bear to think on how bleak I felt then compared to now. To be drenched in the naked flame of a desert sun should have been the evidence to a robust life. The thermals that manifested in the deceptive distance made the climate controlled environment of the Mercedes Benz surreal and inappropriate. The idea that any time spent outside the automobile in the desperate heat would release me to burst into a phoenix was something that seemed enchanted as I reclined against the cool leather interior, doe-eyed and uninterested.

As you drove, determined and resolute to make time, I pondered how aware you were of my reveries for our future. Your mind was always blank when I asked you what you were thinking. I fancied that the only sound you ever heard was the sound of the wheels on your car. I had looked forward to a life of travel and discovery. I saw many lives experienced as a couple with many stories to realise. Life and love would be a succession of road-side attractions and exotic vistas. But your thoughts were more solemn. Your ambitions did not comply with the winding paths and fay-like whims in my head. In the end, you were much engaged elsewhere and I was happy being so very distracted with whatever current endeavours I put my hand to.

Love turned to lovers—lovers turned to memories—time after time and adventure into misadventure—life leads us where it may.
How would I have known that I would have traded it all in for the damp winding roads that penetrate austere forests and bleak glens only to look back winsomely, as if in some kind of nostalgic time-lock? I cannot blame the idiocies of youth for the mindless move, either. Nor can I blame being blind to love’s promise. It was a case of wanderlust, pure and simple. It was the need to be somewhere else that was not known–To find colour after the lack of it–To find darkness after the blinding light then back again. It was the need to cross oceans and traverse the centuries to find adventure and mirth. I learned that the song never really changed; it simply went into key change.

My romance would always be fickle. Your career would always be diabolical. I would always be a chess piece. You would always be as elusive as the thermals on that highway all those years ago. And we would always remain apart.


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