¡Abra me! ^‡

Been down more times than they said I’d need to go.
Still went down again. What’s the worst case scenario?
There is always a park, and others to remind you everything passes, in the end.

Never going back again? You’ll always be going back until it’s real; it’s the whine of time unwinding into a chem trail of particles.

Singer Sargent or Alexander Pope, or your mum and dad, they will always fuck you up ^§

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Rufus and The Art Teacher

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Is there something other that we could be cracking on with?
How can we remember who we really are? What paths are safe to walk? What keys fit in which locks?
What do the Spirits have to chip in on this?

In vino veritas est, they chuckle. Weed assuages the pain, they grin. Revel in the rumours! They applaud. Peace and Real Love! You’ll get there. Maybe not all of you, but all of what you too could have been we will rake up after you. Who said our service was insufficient!

There are ways to know how to walk and listen and look with the ear that does both.
You don’t need to be alone.
You can aim for eternity and be linked to a consciousness that believes enough to see the rest.
May you be blessed with evidence thereof (a.k.a. the silent Hum threading all you ever were into one).
Be your own child and invite more to the party.
(And go easy on Larkin, the black fly in your Chardonnay. Time's up for the Age of Irony....)

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• Photo at top: Parque de Juan Miró
• ^‡: Open me!

• ^§ This Be The Verse

^{By Philip Larkin}
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

• Ironic (not).