Tuesday 30 April 2024

This is the last day of April for this year officially.

I am waiting for it.
Let’s pretend that I am open.
Are there any words for it.

In case of glass or grass. At last alas a city bird evasive. Or elusive. Alive at least, I think. On record.
On the occasion of a moot point painting.
I have nothing to explain and I try a lot to make it be more evident.

And I follow it, along with it.
In crystal there is nothing more. It is not a thing these days.
What is clear transparent mirror dreaming. I’m okay sitting over here. Thanks.

I wrote it then I went back over it.
In that way I kept on writing it.

It is music for me. To me. Drawing and like dance. From a million suns so far away they twinkle out their dying days. No sun has a day to speak of, understand.
The moon is sleeping on its side. A night light on for memory and check the temperature. The room.

I am trying to be free, which one cannot try to do.
First she says it’s not about the how, and then she says it is.
It’s all about the timing, I suppose.

I have a cut mark on my head that’s been there for at least a year.

Form and a form. Practice discipline. There is something to be seen and heard and feeling it quite suddenly. Only when you’re moving it deliberately in touch with it.
Feel your head.

Emptiness like wood block hollow sounding, a percussive instrument. And a plastic 7 litre jug is wonderful with different tones.
It is not percussion, it’s percussive.
It is not a keyboard instrument, it is pressing keys — the sound arrives and departure of a feeling.
It reminds you of a sound you are not hearing and you are delighted by the difference.

Can I tell you something? It’s a secret.
They put the misery in mystery until an old book broke the spell and there was joy again.

High life. Copyright some person with an ID card.
Here’s two million dollars.
It will never be the same as Tex Avery Carl Stalling and Chuck Jones.
What’s up?

There is rain.