"-- it's not always good to be where people think you are, especially if you subscribe to it as well... which is easily done, becuse then you don't have to figure out who you are, you just ask somebody else."
More than simply a carefully placed scrawl upon a paper-bound tomb; an ageless communication from the subconscious of its author - to be carefully interpreted and absorbed by whomever may take interest, if not care, to take the time to translate its message.
A compact concreted plaza, in a roughly diamond shape; left to rest on its edge and pulled at either side - complete with what would assumedly have been at its initial creation, a forum for performing bands; now serving as a sheltered roof which the pal-mal of local miscreants, naer - do - wells, school - skippers and skateboarders could call home. At its side, a busy side-street; just off from the main of Downtown - abject from the carefully constructed hurriedness and urgency of its neighbor. Positioned favourably on a raised set of steps, nestled between a protective over-arch of birches and oaks; as old as the trees themselves.
A scattering of benches sat quietly to its fore-front and top-left; affording to any and all willing not only to look but to see; an auditorium of culture.
Quiet, though not subdued; it afforded patience of thought - perhaps, too, reflection; oft not sought nor, rarer still, found.
"San Paro", apparently. Different. Different from what he hadn't been used, but not altogether completely unexpected.
An entirely illusionary world - one so focused on truth and reconciliation that it had created, all on its own an intuitive superiority to those not subscriptive to its value system of flexible perception. At its conclusion, so taught between the imaginary tug of war between a grand theory of abstract empiricism, that...
... the architects responsible for the blue-prints upon which it was based; the construction firms responsible for bringing together the stones, bricks and slabs required for such a structure; the brick layers and part-time labourers who endured at the least a 48 hour shift in each day to make sure that the cement was mixed and spread just right; the artisans; artists; curators; security guards...
... all of them; placed down the rope and weaved instead into a gilted crimson-weave cordon. A new history in an old museum would be testiment to their lasting endurance - a pronounced example of their contribution to everything - proof of their existance. An interactive, living, breathing mausoleum which required only as payment from those who may visit; a belief in its existance - perhaps, with time...
"-- evolve in a positive direction, retaining its current influence but advocating a different set of policies."
With a heated chute of light penetrating the foliage of leaves above the perch of a bench atop the shared ivory tower inviting a considered glance from above the collection of volumes which sat to his side; a sip of caramel tinted coffee provides a seductive sustinance. A gun-shot from around the corner screamed at the top of its voice, a longing missing of its subjects. An instantaneously following siren providing the stoicly mediated debate of advocated evasiveness in response.
But there was time. Now, and later - and not necesserily a difference between the two.
Seemingly, it was no longer raining - an indication of morning. The storm before the calm.
More than simply a carefully placed scrawl upon a paper-bound tomb; an ageless communication from the subconscious of its author - to be carefully interpreted and absorbed by whomever may take interest, if not care, to take the time to translate its message.
A compact concreted plaza, in a roughly diamond shape; left to rest on its edge and pulled at either side - complete with what would assumedly have been at its initial creation, a forum for performing bands; now serving as a sheltered roof which the pal-mal of local miscreants, naer - do - wells, school - skippers and skateboarders could call home. At its side, a busy side-street; just off from the main of Downtown - abject from the carefully constructed hurriedness and urgency of its neighbor. Positioned favourably on a raised set of steps, nestled between a protective over-arch of birches and oaks; as old as the trees themselves.
A scattering of benches sat quietly to its fore-front and top-left; affording to any and all willing not only to look but to see; an auditorium of culture.
Quiet, though not subdued; it afforded patience of thought - perhaps, too, reflection; oft not sought nor, rarer still, found.
"San Paro", apparently. Different. Different from what he hadn't been used, but not altogether completely unexpected.
An entirely illusionary world - one so focused on truth and reconciliation that it had created, all on its own an intuitive superiority to those not subscriptive to its value system of flexible perception. At its conclusion, so taught between the imaginary tug of war between a grand theory of abstract empiricism, that...
... the architects responsible for the blue-prints upon which it was based; the construction firms responsible for bringing together the stones, bricks and slabs required for such a structure; the brick layers and part-time labourers who endured at the least a 48 hour shift in each day to make sure that the cement was mixed and spread just right; the artisans; artists; curators; security guards...
... all of them; placed down the rope and weaved instead into a gilted crimson-weave cordon. A new history in an old museum would be testiment to their lasting endurance - a pronounced example of their contribution to everything - proof of their existance. An interactive, living, breathing mausoleum which required only as payment from those who may visit; a belief in its existance - perhaps, with time...
"-- evolve in a positive direction, retaining its current influence but advocating a different set of policies."
With a heated chute of light penetrating the foliage of leaves above the perch of a bench atop the shared ivory tower inviting a considered glance from above the collection of volumes which sat to his side; a sip of caramel tinted coffee provides a seductive sustinance. A gun-shot from around the corner screamed at the top of its voice, a longing missing of its subjects. An instantaneously following siren providing the stoicly mediated debate of advocated evasiveness in response.
But there was time. Now, and later - and not necesserily a difference between the two.
Seemingly, it was no longer raining - an indication of morning. The storm before the calm.
