Michael Scott Hand

picks up stones, says they are diamonds
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  • Category: Mondays

    • 19042021

      Posted at 8:16 am by Michael, on April 19, 2021

      Time is the void through which tetrominoes fall.

      It seems simple at first; arranging the blocks. It is satisfying when they fall into place flush against one another.

      Flashing, then, they disappear from view. The Korobeiniki speeds up and the pieces take on a different nature: those shapes, once so easily comprehended, fall faster.

      We spin and slot them together. We build solid walls. We do our best to pay attention to the next piece before it falls, the next piece before it falls, the next piece before it falls.

      The void of time fills up with tetrominoes. Blank spaces between them impossible to reach. Keep spinning. Keep spinning.

      The Korobeiniki speeds up.

      You can’t think about the empty spaces at the bottom of the void. Just keep building on top. Now the next piece matters more than ever. It is the wrong piece. It is the wrong piece.

      The Korobeiniki speeds up.

      Lines flash and vanish. The screen clears but the pieces do not stop falling. The tetrominoes are relentless.

      The Korobeiniki speeds up.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 12042021

      Posted at 9:00 am by Michael, on April 12, 2021

      The explorer treads over uneven rocks. Each step brings him higher; closer to that untouchable blue dome of the sky.

      Certainly there have been so many maps drawn and flags planted in the ground, but nobody has ever climbed this ridge before; no human foot has ever treaded these uneven stones. This is the explorers own journey–his alone.

      His aches and pains, are his alone. He climbs and he gets closer to the sky he cannot reach. He hauls himself up in places where the ridge becomes to steep. He steadies himself when the rocks underfoot become too loose.

      He stays upright. He treads. He climbs.

      Nobody has ever reached the top of this ridge before. Nobody but the explorer, our intrepid friend and he does not know we are watching him. Higher he climbs, and higher. There are many stories about what lays beyond the ridge, each tale grander than the last: a lost city of gold, a valley filled with living prehistoric life, an inland sea of glistening water that can restore one’s youth.

      These tales are sheer fancy, of course. Ripped from half-remembered folk stories and patched together in the form of an unlikely carrot-on-a-stick. For just because none have ever made it to the top of this ridge before does not mean that others have not tried.

      The explorer pays no heed to the bones that he passes on his way up the ridge. Some of them clutch notes, flapping in the wind. The explorer finds it unlikely that their bodies would decay but the notes would remain intact and so he does not read the notes. In truth, the notes say nothing useful.

      And now the explorer has passed well beyond any other adventurer. Each step he takes is a victory for him alone to savour. He has made it farther than anyone else. He has made it–almost–to the very top of the ridge. Mere moments separate him from discovering what lies beyond it.

      Soon, he will know if any of the stories are true.

      He clings and climbs. He groans and clambers. And then, at last, he hauls himself up those few precious inches that bring him to the peak. He does not have a chance to catch his breath before he sees what lies beyond the ridge. Immediately, tears fill his eyes.

      He will sit there for a time, weeping with pure joy at the truth he has discovered. A truth he already knew.

      There is no treasure beyond the ridge; there are only ever more ridges spread out across the land. Each one more dangerous to climb than the last, each one an undiscovered journey. An adventure for the explorer alone.

      And the explorer weeps with joy in the knowledge that his journey has only just begun.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 05042021

      Posted at 9:42 am by Michael, on April 5, 2021

      The scientist notes down her findings for the day in a messy notebook held together with rubber bands. The discovery will change lives, alter the very trajectory of human development; but there hides, trapped between pages of nonsensical scribbles.

      A mathematician draws shapes in the sand. He looks up at the sun and notes the way the trees cast their shadows, lengthening as the day wears on. He draws a triangle, intersected by two lines. He has figured something out today, but he doubts the Elders will believe him.

      The musician switches between two alternating chords on her guitar. She has written a song that will unite the entire world and it begins with only two chords, two chords long forgotten. She didn’t study music; she learned to play by ear and now this song–this special song–rings out in an almost empty room of disinterested patrons.

      The man loads a heavy box of books onto the back of a truck (amongst them is the scientists notebook). They are to be thrown away. The sand in which the mathematician drew the triangle with his fingers has been paved over and the trees with their lengthening shadows were cut down long ago for firewood. The musician forgets about the special song because nobody seemed to like it that much anyway.

      These characters are real and their stories might seem disheartening. But they are not you.

      Experiment. Believe in yourself. Find out what you know and chase it. Listen. Believe; not only in yourself but in others. There is great value in what others know, but you won’t learn unless you listen. There is great value in what you know, but others cannot learn unless you tell them.

      Never stop playing those alternating chords. If your guitar is broken, hum the tune instead. If you think you’ve forgotten how, don’t worry it will come back to you. It’s yours; you cannot forget it.

      And it’s time to make other people listen.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 29032021

      Posted at 7:12 am by Michael, on March 29, 2021

      Routine, ritual, rhythm. This is my mantra.

      I seek the routine in the spinning of the orbs through space; so much grander and more exceptional than our clocks and calendars would have us believe:

      Alarm, wake up, coffee (it’s a dependency). Computer screen. Blinking eyes. Tired eyes. Memories of last week already fading. Memories of yesterday already fading.

      Blinking cursor. Find the words. This is my ritual, a humble weekly offering before the Gods, a little shaved-off sliver of my barely-conscious self.

      Rhythm does not need to be sought. It is ever-present. In my breath. In the tapping of my fingers on the keys. In the mental metronome, that old Grandfather Clock, pendulum swinging.

      Breathe in, breathe out. Blinking eyes; blinking cursor. Tired eyes survey the screen. Last weeks memories fade.

      I write new routines. I conduct new rituals. Rhythm arises out of these moments, the rhythm of footsteps, the rhythm of time: the rhythm of beginning again.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 22032021

      Posted at 8:02 am by Michael, on March 22, 2021

      The art will not elude me.

      It slides and slips like slime; it rises on dream-whispers like evaporating steam.

      It complicates itself. It twists and folds like origami-gone-mad; like an all-consuming origami containing every shape and type of paper, consuming them.

      This origami ball-of-everything rolls back and forth inside my skull. Plastered to it are old takeaway menus and newspaper clippings, school reports and electrical bills, all books and words and photographs reduced to pages, reduced to paper, reduced to a crumpled ball.

      The art will not elude me.

      Ideas that another might have let escape them. I wrestle and fight with the shadows. I do not fear them although I know Where it is they come from. I tear the art from them before they take it. They care not for art, it is abhorrent to them; it is futile.

      It is futile. And yet, by my own determination, the art will not elude me.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • The Righteousness of a Broken Clock

      Posted at 6:18 am by Michael, on March 15, 2021

      Initials carved in wet concrete, worn smooth by the passage of passing feet.

      Time passes, yet those indelible figures remain; through burning sun and falling rain.

      Steps pass over weary stone, ankles click and muscles groan.

      I am not immune to the passing of time. Each step is mine; each second mine.

      Each crack in concrete marks the time and old carved initials become a sign…

      Of things we’ve lost and days enshrined.

      By faded photographs, our lives unwind.

      Like broken cuckoo clocks.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 08032021

      Posted at 6:09 am by Michael, on March 8, 2021

      The world wobbles on its axis, but we don’t feel it?

      The geology of the earth arranges itself in patterns such that we can sense continuity in its transformations.

      A man drops a coloured ball into a tube on the surface and it shunts through pipes, bouncing this way and that.

      Eventually it will pop out the other end, but who knows how long it will take to navigate the pipes?

      The ball, finally coming to rest, is picked up by another man who places it into another tube, and thus–the situation begins again.

      Another ball; another tube.

      Hands move faster now. Shuffling the balls, placing them into tubes. There are no rules to this game. If there ever were they have been lost to time like faded cave paintings.

      Cities spread out like monopoly boards. Chance cards shuffled. In every pack there’s two Jokers, at least.

      At least.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 01032021

      Posted at 7:22 am by Michael, on March 1, 2021

      The world wobbles on its axis, but we don’t feel it.

      The world spins–once slower–now faster, each year. But we do not feel the spinning.

      To the calendar they add leap years to maintain the façade of a reality we are somehow in control of.

      Time and space whirls around us in a dizzying light show. But to us it is just day and night, day and night, day and night.

      Day and night we ponder as the world spins.

      Tectonic plates and magnetic poles and ocean tides. The moon shines down. Old friend; old, dusty rock.

      The world wobbles on its axis, but we don’t feel it.

      Or maybe we do.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 22022021

      Posted at 8:04 am by Michael, on February 22, 2021

      Everything’s okay, says the voice on the loud speaker. Please return to your seats and remain calm.

      And there’s that special type of fear that comes with falling, that life-affirming, last-ditch gasp as your hands turn to claws on the arm rests and you find yourself praying to whatever-god, any-god.

      We will be attempting an emergency landing. Please do not be alarmed; we are trained for this. Assume the brace position.

      Shudder, rattle, shake.

      You wake up, of course, because it’s a dream. There’s no flaming engine outside your window. You’re not even on an aeroplane.

      The fear is replaced by the familiar sensations of your bed sheets and your pillow. Your hands tangled in the covers.

      How foolish of you to mistake a bed for an aeroplane.

      Having safely landed from your dreams, you sit up and place your feet on the floor.

      The floor feels solid beneath you; everything’s okay.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
    • 15022021

      Posted at 7:57 am by Michael, on February 15, 2021

      Worry courses through my veins.

      Like a demon nobody summoned: it’s there, in my blood.

      Worry leers at me from around corners. It stalks me in the night.

      Worry touches everything; it even makes me doubt the words I write are right.

      What right does worry have to stalk me in this way?

      It’s an elongated shadow, sharp teeth gnawing at my nerves.

      My nerves like elevator cables, my psyche is suspended.

      What victory does worry seek?

      Hope, a small bird, flaps around in the air ducts. I can tell the bird is lost, I can hear its body thump against the manufactured metal.

      One tunnel will lead the bird to freedom and yet it is afraid; for in every other air vent there are quickly spinning blades.

      And who am I? A human trapped between a goblin and a dove, unable to control either. Unable to control anything.

      Worry courses through my veins.

      Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments
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      • 05042021
      • Forearmed is Foreword
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