{"id":873,"date":"2013-04-20T23:19:17","date_gmt":"2013-04-20T21:19:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/?page_id=873"},"modified":"2013-05-03T02:28:53","modified_gmt":"2013-05-03T00:28:53","slug":"27-clutch","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/teksty\/teksty-oryginalne\/teksty-ph-solo\/27-clutch\/","title":{"rendered":"27. Clutch"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\nWe are Written<\/strong><\/p>\n

„It was always going to be like this, whatever you bring yourself
\nto say. Why don’t you point that thing the other way and telescope
\nthis tangled story? You’ve got the whole thing at your fingertips,
\nalready scripted in an alien Braille, snagged up under your
\nfingernails.”
\nOh, so blissful, in ignorance we pin the tail, with smudgy marks
\nwe scratch the surface. We are what we were born to be, we are what
\nwe become over time, under our own thumbs. We are written in our
\nfingerprints, in everything we do and see; we are written in our
\nfingerprints, so very singular the marks of our destiny. So open
\nthe hands: this is a lifespan.
\nI found the future in my grasp, the line of least resistance,
\nnaturally; joined up the dots and never thought to ask could I
\nsomehow do this differently? In the heat of the moment it’s impressed
\non me what’s done is done in understanding. And if I had a choice to
\nmake I ignored it as such. So our lifelines accumulate like the dust
\non the things we’ve touched. We are written in our fingerprints, all
\nof our virtues, all our vice. We are written in our fingerprints.
\nOnce upon a time the story: we won’t go through these motions twice.
\nWe are written in our fingerprints. We don’t get to do this thing twice,
\nso let’s play out the hand, unconsciously pre-planned.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nCrossed Wires<\/strong><\/p>\n

„I don’t know, somehow our wires got crossed: you’ve been mistaking me
\nfor someone who never gave a toss. Life’s too short for me to rewrite
\nthis page out of pig ignorance into all the useless wisdom of age.
\nSomething I said off the cuff, without thinking, has driven us apart.
\nOh, you took it so much to heart. To get this straight we need to find
\nsome common ground, some understanding …but that remains unfound.
\nIt’s ancient history, feels like it happened so long ago; of insignificance
\nI’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know. Say what you like, I found the
\ndebate absurd; if we settled all our differences we’d never get back
\nwhere we once were. Let’s get it straight without a shadow of a doubt.
\nSooner or later the naked truth will out – incomprehension is what it’s
\nall about.”
\nI was only speaking my mind: over my tongue I tripped. I put my foot in
\nit the moment that the words left my lips. The moment that the words left
\nmy lips I knew that language had eluded my grip. I know what I meant but
\nperhaps in the telling the wheels fell off the cart…oh, but you took it
\nso much to heart.
\n„Getting it straight our smiles are just like Cheshire Cats’, half of the
\ntime we’re both talking through our hats…I tell you this I never meant
\nto tell you that I got it straight, I put the whole damn thing to bed.
\nSooner or later we’re going to lose our heads, sooner or later the
\nlines’ll all go dead. Getting it straight I don’t take back a word I said:
\nsooner or later the lines’ll all go dead.”
\nSooner or later the line goes dead.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nDriven<\/strong><\/p>\n

„I know you haven’t got the thread of the story so far. Just throw your
\nluggage into the back of the car. We’ll drive around until you think I’ve
\ngone too far but you can’t go home, no, there’s no way home. You haven’t
\nlost the plot but there’s detail you lack. This is a one-way trip and
\nthere’s no turning back. No protestation can divert us from the track
\nwe’re set upon. Soon it’s done and dusted and we’re gone. No-one ever
\nknows the road they’re on.”
\nI’m driven by my younger self into a corner. I remember dreaming the
\nopen road. I liked to think I had control but my hands on the wheel
\nwere guided by some outside force as my future revealed. I slalomed
\nthrough life’s obstacles more on instinct than feel. I picked myself
\nup as a hitcher and it’s really quite a deal to see this lifelong journey
\nthrough his eyes. Just as we got going we’ve arrived. We’re driven by
\nour older selves into what we become and all our careful planning turns
\nout strictly rule of thumb. We’re driven by ourselves but dream we’re
\nfree, on the open road. Free, on the open road.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nOnce you called me<\/strong><\/p>\n

I wish that I remembered better. You’ve grown so fast before my very
\neyes. The woman that you’re now becoming suddenly takes me by surprise.
\nI thought that there’d be time and tide a-plenty to grow into a proper
\nfatherhood but underneath our feet the sands were shifting. You spread
\nyour wings, soon you’ll be gone from me for good. And when I tucked you
\nin at night and swore I’d always love you madly I’d wonder would this
\nbe the last time that you’d ever call me „Daddy”?
\nA bittersweetnes runs through every memory: a daughter’s father wants to
\nbe so strong, then suddenly he’s just an ancient relic. You spread your
\nwings, you weren’t a little girl for very long. And if trouble’s on its
\nway you know I’d lay my life down for you gladly. I only wish that I
\ncould still remember the last time that you called me „Daddy”. Once you
\ncalled me „Daddy”. Oh, my precious girl.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nThe Ice Hotel<\/strong><\/p>\n

Mercury’s down to zero, absolute time will tell we’re only over-wintering
\nas guests in the Ice Hotel. All that we build will crumble, every empire
\nfades; humbled, we should admit impermanence marks the man-made. Under the
\nIce Hotel the permafrost is stacked but down along the walls the first melt
\nstarts to track. The wind’s whipped voices up and swept them down the years
\nbut in the Ice Hotel the guests all have cloth ears. Are we all so
\ncloth-eared?
\nWe’re only here a season, paupers and presidents. Reason allows us only a
\ntemporary residence. Inside the Ice Hotel the mirror ball revolves while
\nin the cinema the screen goes to dissolve. Over and over what’s destroyed
\nwill be remade and in the Ice Hotel we’re only passing trade. The walls
\nare sweating as the Celsius starts to climb. Of all our works this is the
\ntransient paradigm. Each year another team will build it up anew, for in
\nthe Ice Hotel we’re all just passing through, we’re just passing through.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nThis is the Fall<\/strong><\/p>\n

All humans are siblings, this is a truth that I’ve assumed; all fighting
\nover the legacy of a lifelong and timeless family feud in the name of I
\ndon’t know what. I don’t believe in God but if I did I’d surely say there
\nis only one Power up above us, one face refracted in each different Faith.
\nBut for every holy confessor there’s a priest of self-worth trading in the
\neternal for power on earth.
\nSoaked, the blood of believers in the ground where prophets trod. How in
\nGod’s name did religion get so far away from God? Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy
\nnow! Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy! I don’t believe in God but, with all respect
\nto those who do, surely no purpose could be served under heaven if there’s
\nno mercy in this place we’re passing through? Oh, now for every sainted
\nascetic drawing heavenly breath there’s a literal fanatic in love with death.
\nSoaked, the blood in the pages pored with all-too-human pride…in what book
\nof what religion is the blood-lust sanctified? In the name of creation, for
\nwhatever that is worth, why in God’s name is religion bound so mortally to
\nearth? Soaked, the blood of believers in the ground where prophets trod.
\nHow in God’s name did religion fall so far away from God? This is the Fall
\nfrom God.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nJust a Child<\/strong><\/p>\n

This is more than merely wrong, as sin on sin’s grotesquely piled. Don’t
\nlook so surprised when you find yourself reviled. Don’t look to me for
\ncomfort in your trial – the girl was just a child. Uttering remorse with
\nweasel words and shameless guile… it was „a mistake”, no, paedophilia’s
\n„not your style”; all’s undercut by your crookedness of smile – the girl
\nwas just a child. Close to being grown up, occasionally wild, but the girl
\nwas just a child, the girl was just a child.<\/p>\n

Now here come the limp excuses with a euphemistic turn of phrase. The fact
\nis sexual abuse undoes its victims, down through all their days. Darkness
\nclouds her face, no longer fresh and juvenile. Home’s no longer safe, her
\ninnocence is lost, with rising bile. This is not a hurt that will ease
\nafter a while – the girl was just a child. Offer your contrition, in remorse
\nyou’re meek and mild but the girl was just a child and you can’t restore
\nthe treasure, the flower you defiled – the girl was just a child. More
\nthan merely wrong, this is simply vile – the girl was just a child.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nSkinny<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nobody knows what she sees, no-one can get behind that warped
\nreflection. What glossy varnish strips away protection from young
\ngirls like these? No-one admits what it means, no-one permits a
\ngesture of contrition; how carelessly they stacked the ammunition
\nin the magazines. Like a gun to her head, skinny model fantasy.
\nNo, she just can’t bear to live with this body image.
\nWho knows what she sees? Who knows what she sees in body image?
\nNobody knows what she sees, no-one can guess the depth of her
\nself-rejection. Seen through the eyes of the disease her unblemished
\nskin’s all pock-marked with imperfection. Somebody messed up all
\nher young dreams; pretending that this is all of her own volition
\nhow carelessly they stacked up the ammunition in the magazines.
\nLike a gun to her head, every glossy fashion shot that reminds her
\nof all the pretty girls she’s not in body image. Like a gun to her
\nhead skinny model fantasy; no she just can’t bear to live with this
\nbody image. Like a gun to her head, every glossy fashion shot reminds
\nher of all the pretty girls she’s not in body image. Like a gun to
\nher head, every image that she sees. No, she just can’t bear to live
\nwith this body image, body image, body image.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nBareknuckle Trade<\/strong><\/p>\n

And when you feel you can’t go on what kind of laurels do you
\nlook to? Sometimes we get what we want, sometimes we take
\na good hook too. Once you thought you were so strong…some
\nyoung pretender came and shook you. Now there’s a lesson to
\nbe learned: we must respect what is gone and still expect
\nthere’ll be something more, but there’s a tab left to pay
\nfor the experience we’re gaining day after day as our knuckles
\nare grazed by the marks that we made with the tools of the trade.
\nA telegraph is on its way that might explain my every action.
\nSometimes we get what we want and then forget what we came here for.
\nFrom fitness to decay we trade in opposite attractions. There are
\nstill lessons to be learned and when we get what we want we find
\nit less than we might deserve. Now I’m a little bit lost, not for
\nthe first time I’m here in some disarray and returning in spades
\nare the hands that I’ve played with the tools of the trade.
\nIf I learned my lesson well I’ve got time to buy and sell with the
\ntools of the trade.
\n„What do you want? What do you get? What do you want? What do you
\nexpect?” What you want, what you want’s not what you get. The tools
\nof the trade, look what you made with the tools of the trade. But
\nwhat price has been paid for the tools of the trade? And here’s a
\nmessage in my hands, though I’m not sure I can decode it. Sometimes
\nwe get what we want and yet still don’t know quite what that is.
\nTimidity be damned – hang on to that towel, never throw it. Still
\nthere are lessons to be learned: if we don’t get what we want at
\nleast we get to request the bill, carrying on until the last one is
\nstanding still in the game. With quick breath we all pay for the
\nfists that we made: these, the tools of the trade.<\/p>\n

\"Przewi\u0144<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We are Written „It was always going to be like this, whatever you bring yourself to say. Why don’t you point that thing the other way and telescope this tangled story? You’ve got the whole thing at your fingertips, already … Czytaj dalej →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":659,"parent":519,"menu_order":27,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"sidebar-page.php","meta":{"_sitemap_exclude":false,"_sitemap_priority":"","_sitemap_frequency":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-873","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/873","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=873"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/873\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":875,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/873\/revisions\/875"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/659"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=873"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}