STANDSTILL

isidore hip-hop shuffles its way out through the tinny pc speakers
which cut out all the subtle resonant bass frequencies
an album recorded across continents
spanning the wide pacific
two artists who met only virtually
like you and i, dear reader, on 'the art of living'
the music of jeffrey cain
the voice and words of steve kilbey
these two fellows paint an exotic canvas of watery soundscapes
as the dawn light seeps through the windows to the balcony...
i take a ticket from the machine
hand over 4000 won for the privilege of waiting in a long queue
to replace my 'magic hana' bank card and passbook
two more victims lost among the ever-accumulating domestic debris
sucked down into the deadly quick-sand of our spare room
which, when i can fight my way into it, doubles as my sometime music studio
items hidden away in remote drawers
one day to resurface like fossils...
i am running
running to stand still
coming to a standstill
shifting stuff from the in-tray to the out-tray
watching the in-tray fill up again
a process akin to osmosis
deleting electronic messages from the in-box
sensing the quiet regular pulse of new communications
aggregating and accumulating once more
like trees falling silently and invisibly in the forest
as the seoul transit system channels me through the arteries of the city
streams of consciousness fill my notebook and dictaphone
i transmigrate my thoughts from notebook to blog
my melodies and lyrics from dictaphone to digital tape recorder
then watch the notebook and dictophone refill
a disembodied hand scribbling down lines of spidery handwriting
a strange voice humming and scatting
words of an acquaintance i vaguely know
mental microfiche for the library catalogue
songs fill my head faster than i can sing them
words fill my thoughts faster than i can write them
permanence is impermanent
impermanence is permanent
our documents are useless
our records need updating
our database is obselete
the endless cycle of life and death continues relentlessly
birth
atrophy
decay
rebirth
incarnation and reincarnation
i am king canute facing the incoming tide
with neither throne nor courtiers
alone on the beach with my bucket, my spade and my bare hands
i struggle to build my sandcastle
i paw and scrape
put up little flags
even as i watch the seawater swirl around the moat
undermining the foundations
collapse imminent