Statement of EastBloc 13

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When they’re small we know they need us. When they’re not we can’t understand they don’t.

It’s such an easy habit. The love is immediate. The remit comfortable. You fall into it. Until you’re not. And a switch should turn on at this moment. But it doesn’t, and so you go looking for it. Looking in the dusk. Where all the shadows are grey. And you know you will die. But you keep going. And you appreciate the softness of the caress. And the sweetness is still with you, weathered face and windstrewn tears. You are not possessed, though you are looking, and beauty attracts.

We are in a sense slaves to the habits and crave the softness of beeing seen. The shadows are no less grey, but they are less menacing. We can live with that.

We can live with the hope and the idea. It is our way to confront the unstoppable, deal with time. With things slipping past. And the search demands focus. This cuts out the corners. Awash in time. Our aim is clear and true, but we borrow freely.

After a while the signals gets crossed, inevitably. No matter reaching out. No matter structure. Approaching from behind a smile. Stuck in meatlife.

Hollowness never far away, sometimes next door, across the street, at the grocery. The force of night, the blanket of memory. Aghast looking for shock, limbs stretched, involuntary spasms jerking that is outside of my control. Beyond reason and being life stepping up with blue and angry men wanting it all no room for negotiation. A contemporary drama sometimes trying to escape by picking up speed that carries the momentum over the slope and then there is no stopping it.

No matter. Leaves will be falling. Men will cry. Outside rain, nods in the hallway, shoes echoing archways carrying the sound diluting to fade, over the piazza no longer. Shades are drawn a clutter in the dimmed kitchen, even the sounds muted beyond logic preparing to meet, soon. Crash behind the church quickly gone concerned with the passing and memories but where the music, where the smells?

We glide into it. Smooth brows, no time. This place, unexpected because letting go liberating. Can we move towards rather than away?

Like writing in code about something forgotten.

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