To EELS , "Things the grandchildren should know"

There's a light in the window, but it's still light outside. The sea gulls move in an awkward flight pattern, more than usual, but it seems so reoccurring I don't notice it. Some type of floating premonition.

Isolated and reclusive isn't exactly where I am, but it is a pathway that I've been following, running away but finding comfort in the act of running.

People chase me, jobs, girls, family, dogs. I enjoy the run, a constant craving and longing for something I won't find. Re-learning and re-associating how to talk and speak, the sidewalk moves along with me. There must be something other than that I can tell, because everyone I know that's dead still resound in my head.

It's not at all good, not all bad, sometimes to refresh myself I talk to a mirror, but it's jumbled and choppy, no story of plot. Like this, my head is scrabbled and as gratuitous as I can be for meeting beautiful people, I move away, let it sting, but wish I could do it again.

to Johnny Flynn, "The Wrote and The Writ"

The snow was casting weird shadows today against an overcast sky. A holy sky, I watch skiers carefully glide down the mountain, like pastors reading through a worship book for a new parish. And what an alter they worship on. A skyward image that bellows and howls, a pillar of fire.

There is a writing and a carving in the snow and ice. Things that a wiser man could decipher, but I can’t. I look out of a window, cold and shivering, my mind elsewhere.

To green pastures and Australia I think of, the swirl of Dublin’s emerald grass mixed with an open sky. A faintly picking song reminds me of that place, but not a memory I suppose, more of a premonition, something that hasn’t been written, but will be wrote.

(song restart)

I picture us going there, side by side like walking up an alter. A communion we both make, but in desperate places, different minds. We cannot speak in tongues yet, and it is obvious, for our connection was lost, and our babel was broken a few nights ago. We spoke the same language and words, but now there is a separation, a type of schism or an excommunication. Ex-communication, the process of rejecting a communion, a unity. We didn't reject it, perhaps I just missed the next progression, You were reciting a hymn and I forgot the melody, and now I can't find the time again.

to AWOLNATION, "Sail"

There’s some orchestras in my life, some various noises and crescendos, some conductors and players who haven’t practiced their lines enough. I am the later, I forget my role and my lines, but am faking along anyway. It is a supportive role; I am here from the ambiance, for the presence.

My love has been the same way, she no longer sings like she used to. She fakes it now, among other things, and blames it on inspiration and lack of outlet. She claims she’ll fly away come summer, but I doubt it.

And we see each other at night, the music and dialogue between us resolve and we sit down. Enjoying one another, but only for a second. It is a rare and miraculous clicking, one that used to happen often.

I meet another girl in my life, a dancer, and she walks on her tips toes. It is a difficult transition, from someone creating the music to one who interpreting it. She has  broad shoulders, but she is not who I thought she was.

There is cardboard scattered along the house now, like an alley in the city I used to live in. Even the darker memories from that city seem bright now. The singer says I am the one who moved away and left, but she was gone long before.

Welcome

You have found The Moon and the Tide.

Words are my tide and music is my moon.

The blog is dedicated to experimental writing, a study on multi-media art and writing.

Each post will be written while I listen to a particular song.

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