Music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3UpZydTFb0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gd8QNraWB0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG7I4oniOyA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaSH-0Q4nys
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7N4I5Oi4WI&feature=related
Cheeks burning, singed by the starry, open sky cold.
The south easterly that is titillating Aro Street's corners
Creating vacuous channels for the ten fold burn off fire works.
Glancing at Pippa Middleton, I can't help referencing my 11 year old self.
What has changed since that barraging crush on the English Royal Family,
to now, where I only have sympathy for their long gone royal selves.
Things have got out of hand to say the least.
In peeps my 11 year old music tastes.
Paul McCartney's 'Flowers in the Dirt' and Annie Lennox's 'Diva'.
So inflamed by both albums that even now, 11 years on, they melt me.
The crooked, metre long scarves with lost, gained, forgotten stitches.
All made with an awkward tongue position concentration!
The bamboo skewer house made based on a circular courtyard, sky well cooling principle, painted cobalt blue and black. Then thrown away in an unbridled tantrum a few years later.
The easily flown tears triggered by news from Australia;
The great void that lay between my social and 11 year old self.
The loneliness.
The complete satisfaction from being alone.
The utter satisfaction gained from staring at Princess Diana, and the young Princess Elizabeth.
Translated into my embarrassingly, un-beknowest to me mesmerized looks at Prince William and Princess Kate.
Or just simply Kate and William. If anybody, in the 1000 years since 1066, is changing royalty my faith lies in them.
I believe they have seen the vacuum of silence in life. Not seen, but believed.
On Karepa Tce this morning I experienced this silence. My insides emptied, and I was part of the aether momentarily.
Called back only by the mating sounds of two shimmering, handsome Tuis hopping nervously from branch to branch in sight of me.
Apuka Tce led me back to the civil sounds of urbanity; Helen St gave me my first whiff of self destruction.
On kitchen table hesitantly detailing my un-impressive newfound philosophy; thought through for months, un-impressively debuting on paper last night. Its cyclical, as all things I believe are. Starting and ending with ego. Verdure/physical health, inspiration, adventure, altruism and cosmos the stages between.
My current approach to this uneffable odyssey we call life.
Perception. Personality. Ego.
Closeted nostalgia tumbled out.
Tumbling unceremoniously to the micro-moment 'High Hopes', merged with Alexandre Desplat's 'Motherhood'.
A dream complete. A barraged brain catching up. My whole childhood encapsulated.
Sweet dreams are made of this nostalgia.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3UpZydTFb0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gd8QNraWB0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG7I4oniOyA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaSH-0Q4nys
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7N4I5Oi4WI&feature=related
Cheeks burning, singed by the starry, open sky cold.
The south easterly that is titillating Aro Street's corners
Creating vacuous channels for the ten fold burn off fire works.
Glancing at Pippa Middleton, I can't help referencing my 11 year old self.
What has changed since that barraging crush on the English Royal Family,
to now, where I only have sympathy for their long gone royal selves.
Things have got out of hand to say the least.
In peeps my 11 year old music tastes.
Paul McCartney's 'Flowers in the Dirt' and Annie Lennox's 'Diva'.
So inflamed by both albums that even now, 11 years on, they melt me.
The crooked, metre long scarves with lost, gained, forgotten stitches.
All made with an awkward tongue position concentration!
The bamboo skewer house made based on a circular courtyard, sky well cooling principle, painted cobalt blue and black. Then thrown away in an unbridled tantrum a few years later.
The easily flown tears triggered by news from Australia;
The great void that lay between my social and 11 year old self.
The loneliness.
The complete satisfaction from being alone.
The utter satisfaction gained from staring at Princess Diana, and the young Princess Elizabeth.
Translated into my embarrassingly, un-beknowest to me mesmerized looks at Prince William and Princess Kate.
Or just simply Kate and William. If anybody, in the 1000 years since 1066, is changing royalty my faith lies in them.
I believe they have seen the vacuum of silence in life. Not seen, but believed.
On Karepa Tce this morning I experienced this silence. My insides emptied, and I was part of the aether momentarily.
Called back only by the mating sounds of two shimmering, handsome Tuis hopping nervously from branch to branch in sight of me.
Apuka Tce led me back to the civil sounds of urbanity; Helen St gave me my first whiff of self destruction.
On kitchen table hesitantly detailing my un-impressive newfound philosophy; thought through for months, un-impressively debuting on paper last night. Its cyclical, as all things I believe are. Starting and ending with ego. Verdure/physical health, inspiration, adventure, altruism and cosmos the stages between.
My current approach to this uneffable odyssey we call life.
Perception. Personality. Ego.
Closeted nostalgia tumbled out.
Tumbling unceremoniously to the micro-moment 'High Hopes', merged with Alexandre Desplat's 'Motherhood'.
A dream complete. A barraged brain catching up. My whole childhood encapsulated.
Sweet dreams are made of this nostalgia.
No comments:
Post a Comment