{"id":881,"date":"2013-04-20T23:45:22","date_gmt":"2013-04-20T21:45:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/?page_id=881"},"modified":"2013-05-03T02:30:35","modified_gmt":"2013-05-03T00:30:35","slug":"29-singularity","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/teksty\/teksty-oryginalne\/teksty-ph-solo\/29-singularity\/","title":{"rendered":"29. Singularity"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\nOur Eyes Give it Shape<\/strong><\/p>\n

I’m getting the idea, I haven’t got a clue.
\nAs my fabulous career ends up dead in the gutter
\nthe stars are shining down right on cue.
\nIt’s not much of a shock, it comes as no surprise
\nthat changing all the locks when the horses have bolted
\nis a useless exercise.
\nAnd play it how I will and say it as I may
\nI won’t pick that poison pill as a effortless exit
\nfrom the Mystery Play.<\/p>\n

I’m so glad I’m still here to see this,
\nthe break of day at the end of the long dark night…<\/p>\n

All’s not as it appears, this tale has many twists –
\nbut if I wasn’t here documenting the story
\nwould that mean that the plot did not exist?
\nOh, would it not be absurd if there was no objective state?
\nWhat if the unobserved always waits, insubstantial,
\ntill our eyes give it shape?<\/p>\n

I’m so glad that I’m still here to see this,
\nthe whole story is unfolding before my eyes;
\nI’m so happy I can barely believe it…
\nthis simple pleasure is the mystery spice of life.<\/p>\n

And I am happy just to breathe in the quality of the light.<\/p>\n

I’m getting the idea, I’m seeing things anew,
\nit’s all becoming clear at this delicate juncture
\nthere can be no false nor true.
\nI want to have it all, I want to see the whole thing through…
\nIt’s a fifty fifty call: maybe Schr\u00f6dinger’s cat
\ncould be the Cheshire one too?<\/p>\n

I’m so glad that we’re both here to see this:
\nthe chink of light in the tunnel of love’s embrace.
\nI’m so happy I can barely believe it
\nA simple pleasure in the simple things makes life great.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nEvent Horizon<\/strong><\/p>\n

Flat on my back, I can feel myself falling
\ninto a singular state of mind;
\nas if through a fog, I can hear someone calling.
\nI know I’m cutting it fine,
\nthinking that maybe it’s time to cross the line.<\/p>\n

The last thing I need’s any outside assistance;
\nwhatever I do will be what has been done
\nand if force is applied, let it be from a distance.
\nRight now I’m biding my time;
\nhold on, I’m biting my tongue,
\nhoping I’m timing my run across the line.<\/p>\n

It’s all gone so quiet and scary,
\nI can feel the bloodrush in my ears.
\nIf only I could keep my head,
\nif only I could keep my head from spinning,
\nif only I could keep my head
\nI’d cross the line.<\/p>\n

Is that the finish in sight or a mist that’s descending?
\nThe geometry’s blurred at the edge of the scene.
\nAt the vanishing point there’ll be no perfect ending,
\nno final dotting of „i”s, no chance of crossing the „t”s –
\nat last, unpicked at the seams, I’ll cross the line.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nFamous Last Words<\/strong><\/p>\n

„If I close my eyes I can pretend
\nthe best is still before me, the worst is at an end.
\nTime for goodbyes to the audiences that adored me;
\nthey never realised
\njust how much I came to despise all their eagerness.”<\/p>\n

Famous last words,
\nmade in jest, overheard,
\nis that your best testament?
\nOr are you coining a phrase
\njust to see how it plays
\nwhen you’re at your wits’ end.
\nFamous last words,
\nto the last you’ll self-serve,
\nwhat a waste of your breath.<\/p>\n

When you close your eyes will you pretend
\nthat nothing bad has happened, that we are still close friends?
\nSo many lies, after all the illusions are shattered
\nstill at all costs you must hide
\nthe emptiness where your true feelings used to reside.<\/p>\n

Famous last words,
\nthey’re so over-rehearsed –
\nthey just sound like pretence.
\nYou’ll go out in style,
\nto the last in denial
\nof what anything’s meant.
\nFamous last words,
\nto the last you’ll self-serve,
\nwhat a waste of all that breath.<\/p>\n

(It’s a little too late for sorry…
\nin a race against the clock
\nnow you hit that mental block
\ntime to take that poison cup
\nnow your time is all used up.)<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nNaked to the Flame<\/strong><\/p>\n

She was waxed up to face the camera like butter wouldn’t melt
\nin the back room Agencies hammered out a deal: points on the pelt.
\nIn the airlessly frenzied atmosphere she was the mistress of misrule,
\nseeming careless of everything except her look, cooler than cool.
\nAnd she’s singing for her supper and she’s dancing in the dark
\nand she’s running for her life if she but knew it.
\nAnd though her heart is hard as stone
\nthat’s still the flint from which she’ll spark….
\nLike a moth to the flame
\nshe was so eager to make it
\nher ambition became naked.<\/p>\n

How iconically arched the eyebrow pluck, how vaselined the lens.
\nNow ironically even highbrow critics rush to her defence….
\nAnd she’s spinning in the spotlight, but increasingly confused
\nabout the context that she finds herself wrapped up in.
\nIs it in this skin she’s living or in the last one she abused?
\nNothing quite like a dame, was she the broken or the breaking?
\nThe girl, the woman became
\nnaked.<\/p>\n

I preferred her in anonymity, but now that cover’s blown
\nand, absurdly, she stars, eponymously cast: it’s Salome’s show.
\nOh, be careful what you wish for as your own head might get turned
\nyou might find the biter bit before you know it;
\nthough ever eager for the spotlight she was never quite ready to be burned.
\nAt the end of the game the signature dish will get plated.
\nShe’ll go out as she came, written in light as her fate is.<\/p>\n

The moth discovers the flame’s
\nnaked.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nMeanwhile my Mother<\/strong><\/p>\n

Meanwhile, my mother,
\nwaiting for what?
\nI don’t know….
\nThe recall of a favourite memory,
\nor perhaps for a painful one to go?
\nShe doesn’t let that much show.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile, above her head
\nall my monologues flows.
\n„What’s that you’re saying, dear?”
\nWading through time like it’s treacle,
\nher eyes looking into mine although
\nshe won’t even notice me go.<\/p>\n

In the meantime I pack her things up
\nand get them ready to store;
\nin between times I take a good look around,
\nfor we’ll not be visiting here much more.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile, my mother,
\ndistance encamped in her eyes,
\nnot quite oblivious but
\nclose to a state of inertia
\nin which she won’t even realise
\nhow everything’s passing her by.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile, my mother,
\nlost in a world of her own,
\nturns to look out of the window
\ndown to the verdant earth below.
\nSome journeys we make alone
\nsomehow we’ll leave all we’ve known.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile, my mother,
\nwaiting for what?
\nTime to go.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nVainglorious Boy<\/strong><\/p>\n

I said steady up, settle down, make way for the Idiot Boy.
\nHe’s here to sell you some kind of a story;
\nlike a stuck-up sore thumb he’ll be coming on bashful and coy,
\nall of the while pumping up his vainglory.<\/p>\n

I said give it up, slap it down, idolise the Idiot Boy;
\nlove’s what he wants, or at least some attention
\nand he believes all the hype…
\nlike an archetypal Geijin-cum-goy
\nhe plays up the Alien Genius Pretension.<\/p>\n

He’d fake his own confession to get you on his side.<\/p>\n

Oh, I say lighten up, calm it down, time out for His Idiocy now.
\nWhat’s going to happen when the audience dwindles?
\nThe tide’s out, the ride’s up, the world’s got no comfort somehow\u00f6
\ntruth to tell, it’ll be himself that he’s swindled
\nin a broken-down profession of over-weaning pride.
\nNowhere to hide….<\/p>\n

Heaven sent compliments that were meant sincerely fall flat
\nand the bitterest pill is the one he can’t swallow.<\/p>\n

The idiotic thing is what we have always known:
\nhowever great success is, however far you’ve flown
\nyou’ll come to face this audience:
\nyourself, yourself alone.<\/p>\n

You’ll come to face yourself alone,
\nyou idiot, idiot boy!<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nFriday Afternoon<\/strong><\/p>\n

Why wait for life to happen,
\nwhen right before our eyes
\nblind fate unwraps its patterns?
\nI just said „See you soon”.
\nMy piano was in tune
\nwhen you walked out of the room.
\nIt felt like any normal Friday.<\/p>\n

At concert pitch, 440
\nthe pressure’s many tons;
\nthe weight of life befalls me.
\nI wish I could pretend
\nmy piano’s on the mend.
\nYou treated it like a friend, left it to settle down over the weekend.<\/p>\n

You’ve got a ticket on the terraces for the game on Saturday
\nand afterwards you might go for a beer.
\nOn Sunday afternoon you’ll take the family to the park
\nand later, when it’s getting dark
\nyou’ll say „We’ve still got that old spark”,
\nyou’ll say „Oh, aren’t we just so lucky to be here….”<\/p>\n

So stupid and so senseless….
\nSometimes we’re pulled up short, quite shockingly defenceless.
\nI don’t know what to do: my piano’s out of tune…
\nit’s not as if I can assume that it’s ever going to get any better now.<\/p>\n

A liquid lunch appointment when the working week is done,
\nthere’s time for one more just before he goes.
\nA quick glance at the watch and now it’s time to head for home.
\nAnd so it’s goodbye to the ladies,
\ngrabs the keys to his Mercedes,
\nthinking „Maybe I should get a cab….”.
\nBut no.<\/p>\n

Blind drunk, he met you head on.
\nOn a normal Friday afternoon.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nWhite Dot<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nothing is like anything else,
\neverything’s the same,
\nour progress punctuated
\nby a series of coincidence
\nto form a logical chain.<\/p>\n

Nothing is like everything else,
\nlike anything you name.
\nPomposity unpunctured,
\nwe’re approaching a velocity
\nof escape from our mortal frames.<\/p>\n

So nothing is like anything else,
\nso everything’s designed.
\nWe’re utterly dependent on
\nour self-deluding sense of what we’ve done
\nand what we’ll do if we have time
\nwith nothing else in mind.<\/p>\n

A time to think is now at a premium.
\nYou show bare inkling of a vital sign.
\nThough in the pink
\nin every outward appearance
\ninside it’s white dot time.<\/p>\n

Oh, nothing comes to mind.
\nSo nothing comes to mind.
\nDoes nothing come to mind
\nwhen you’re finally mindful of nothing?<\/p>\n

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

Our Eyes Give it Shape I’m getting the idea, I haven’t got a clue. As my fabulous career ends up dead in the gutter the stars are shining down right on cue. It’s not much of a shock, it comes … Czytaj dalej →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":659,"parent":519,"menu_order":29,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"sidebar-page.php","meta":{"_sitemap_exclude":false,"_sitemap_priority":"","_sitemap_frequency":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-881","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/881","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=881"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/881\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":883,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/881\/revisions\/883"}],"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=881"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}