20:00 - Dinner
Alone but entertained
I like it that way

21:00 - Skype calls
Not having talked for four days
I've missed her yet the occasional silence is nice

22:00 - Fillers
Scrolling through pictures and sharing thoughts
A pleasant and calm feeling

23:00 - Rethinking
The first hypothetical theories about the day
Laughing at the slip-ups to push them away

00:00 - Reflecting
Doubting choices throughout the week
Faking a small smile

01:00 - Endurance
A familiar feeling spreads
Downcast eyes and a facade of peace

02:00 - Creative
New ideas and thoughts fill up the space
Pick and choosing which ones would hurt the most now

03:00 - Idealistic
Reading stories about happiness, pain and change
Wondering what will become of me

04:00 - Closure
Horrible thoughts tearing down the last walls
Curling up and crying again

05:00 - End
Following a familiar routine before sleep comes
Cradling the broken mind

Late night thinking
Unblinking and sinking
Rethinking my choice of words
It's absurd
Everything is so blurred
Fragments shifting through holes
I take on all these roles
What lost souls

Late night thinking
Tinkering with memories
I need remedies
These fragments slash through flesh
Fresh wounds fester
Exposing new memory holes

Late night thinking
Should I have said that
Combat of my mind
Memories become no mans land, blind
Confined within the crevices of my mind
I just want to unwind
Let's leave all this behind

Tomorrow, perhaps, you may find
Some peace of mind.

Silence.

Silence is what brings me to the keyboard.

Silence is the most forgiving thing, also the most condemning.

Never before hearing silence have I ever felt so insecure, never have I felt so free, so sure, never have I felt worse about myself as a person.

The silence has always given me everything I need and taken away anything that I’ve ever wanted, you see, my mind processes information faster than anything or anyone else. Not math or science, just thoughts, the series of movements never ends, thinking, rethinking, losing thoughts, remembering, wishing to forget. Along with my quick-silver mind, I can’t forget, anything, ever. Remember that time that you did something bad? Anything? I remember that every second, every minute, every hour. Every time I was wrong, every time I forgot something important or didn’t do something I was supposed to; I can’t just shrug it off, the thought of neglect or inferiority never leaves, it just gets harder and harder to not think about. Remember that time something bad happened to you? I was robbed once, I can see everything except the faces, I didn’t see them then and can’t see them now. The feeling of being robbed burns through me, fear, horror, sarcasm, lack of will to fight, lack of will to fight for an object, I cared so little about things then.

You may be reading out of curiosity, maybe out of boredom, maybe even out of true, pure, finalizing interest, because interest is always the enemy of silence. Have you ever sat in a room with a loved one and been completely silent? Seven out of ten times, I am, even if there’s noise. Before you ask, or even assume, we all assume things unfortunately, but before you do, I’m not deaf. I may be a bit blind, but you’d only think that would make sound stand out more. Only it doesn’t. My mind processes sounds just like everyone else, that’s one of the few things I have in common with anyone. Not saying I’m alone in this world, that would be conceited of me, but I certainly don’t feel similar to anyone, to anything, I did once, but that was before the silence overtook me.

When one talks about silence, I feel it only fair that sound should also be spoken of. Everything makes a sound, no two sounds are perfectly matched. Though we may hear two sounds that seem similar, no two things are exactly the same. Ever. Remember when you were young, how everything seemed so loud? The age of ten was the last time things were loud to me. Not to say that my ears have become any less sharp, that my senses have dulled, but that was when silence overtook the sound. The sounds are only a blurry memory to me now, maybe someday someone will show me the beauty in sound again, but for now I’m stuck in my own silent world.

I wish this were a two way communication, though things would still be silent at least I could read your lips, your words, your body language, those things never truly lie. In a way silence breeds the truth in all of us, in another it brings out the most horrible lies. I like to think it makes me more honest, but no one likes to think of themself as a weaver of lies and betrayer of friends. But we all know we have at least once and in the silence, not my silence, but your silence, you will feel, hear, and touch all these things as I do.

The silence makes me want to confess to the most horrible things I’ve done, to be modest about the most heroic, it makes me want to boast and brag, to lie, to do anything to just try and have someone stop the lack of sound. I’ve tried to scream, though my voice is just as silent to me as the outside world is. In a way, the silence is darkness, yet, the silence is light.

What would you do to end your silence?

Would you fight? ****? Would you be dishonest? Would you betray your friends and family, all for the sake of getting someone to say words that could honestly reach your ears?

I wouldn’t. Not anymore. And I certainly wouldn’t suggest it. I tried every bad thing I could think to get someone to talk, actually speak words to me. The English language is nothing but sounds now. Broken, failed sounds. Not that any other language is any better, they all just sound like silence, not even static, true static, which most people equate with ghosts or some other form of other-worldly something. That would certainly be a gift now, but I would never ask, could never, for something as unneeded and unwanted as static.

On the other hand, would you be a hero to end the silence? Would you fight countless monsters, not all of them necessarily realistic just in the hopes that someone you saved would say something? Would you put out fires? Defeat enemies? Could you even? I could. I tried at the very least. I was even brutally honest for the longest time. People don’t much appreciate that believe it or not. No one wants to be lied to and no one wants to know that they can’t follow all their dreams. Unfortunately for everyone, myself included, we’re all lied to, and we most certainly can’t follow most of our dreams.

The silence makes sure that I remember this. Three seconds from now I won’t care to try and talk to anyone. I’ll let this communiqué fall from my lips and try my hardest to forget that I ever wrote it. But we all know that won’t work. The silence that helps me sleep is also the silence that keeps me awake. How do I sleep? I wonder that just as I wonder how to rid myself of a silence like this. The short answer is that I don’t. The long answer is more complicated than I’d like to explain.

But the Silence, I feel I should treat it like its own being now, its own perfectly horrible, evil, monstrosity of a heroic being; the Silence doesn’t forgive, much like me it doesn’t forget, the only difference between the Silence’s memory and my own is that my mind screams at me, screams in the Silence that permeates around me. I never remember how hard or horrible my mind thinks before I sleep, all I see is the images that make up my dreams, rarely do I have nightmares, but it wouldn’t matter even if I didn’t dream, Silence fills my mind, my heart, my soul.

Do you remember the first time you were ever discouraged from anything? That first time you went to speak and realized you couldn’t so instead you cried? That is the exact feeling that I feel in the Silence. Knowing that no matter how hard I scream that my voice is utterly and completely incomprehensible. What would you do in my position? For that matter, what would I do in my situation? Some have told me all I need is a modicum of patience, others have told me that I never should wait and should only take action. Neither plan has ever worked for me.

Ever waited for time to pass while looking at a clock? That’s my entire life. Every moment seeming more Silent than the last despite that things never seem to change. Sure I’ve changed locations, but I’ve changed locations before and nothing is ever any different. Would you like to see inside my mind? That would probably help you speak to me, help me hear your words. But then again, maybe the Silence would only overtake you as well. For the sake of an attempt I have never tried, I’ll do it, free-thought writing, granted it will be much slower than I think. Just read it as fast as you can while understanding, but remember, don’t speak, don’t hear anything but the Silence in your mind,

Empty, but not. Women, memories of every one I ever met. Betrayal, both by me, and from me. A day where the sun doesn’t rise, but only falls again. Hoping this will be poetic. A name, not mine, not yet. Falling stars that bring me silent wishes. Hoping these words will speak to someone who isn’t me. Laughter, the sweet sound, I think that’s what it is. Complete Silence. Time elapsed, two seconds.

Not everything is simple and clear, many thoughts are more focused, like holding a magnifying glass backward, I squint my eyes and can see the world as it is, but with them open all I see is blur, Silent blur that reminds me that in a way I am all alone and in another that the entire world is watching me with narrow, scrutinizing eyes.

Ten minutes is all Sabyasachi Mukherjee has. “Can you keep the interview short,” I’m asked, as the announcement of his participation in the finale of Lakme Fashion Week’s upcoming Winter Festive show is made. Is ten minutes enough to recap the 14-year journey of this master of colour, cut and construction, I wonder. But I realised that Sabyasachi in rapid-fire mode can make ten minutes seem like twenty! Excerpts:

What is it about LFW that made you return?

It’s here that I first made a mark as a designer. I’m familiar with the format, and know the people. It is like a homecoming. The good thing about LFW is that everything is taken care of – from building the set to inviting people. So I have the freedom to focus on the clothes. It is like putting together a complete show, but doing only half the work!

Finales are a challenge – given the expectations of people in the fraternity, profiles of attendees and the intangible themes created by Lakme for interpretation into garments…

Well, it’s not at all difficult for me. This is my fifth finale at LFW. Once the make-up and hair are set, it is easy to imagine the look and what the girls must wear. I’m way too senior to worry about pre-show stress. My biggest pressure comes from whether I will like what I create. Beyond that, even the critics’ reaction doesn’t really concern me.

Will this line too be about Indian-ness?

Whether I do Western, Eastern or a combination, I always use Indian handcrafts, and all my clothes are handmade. Traditional textiles, block prints, weaves and embroidery are a constant in my collections. The theme being “Illuminate”, this line is about red-carpet clothes with a strong shimmer quotient.

Sunday was National Handloom Day. Considering our diverse range of homespun textiles, do you think everyday must be celebrated as handloom day in India?

Absolutely. It is mandatory at my stores. My staff wears only handloom saris or kurtas made of hand-woven fabric. My Instagram hashtag says ‘Wearing handloom everyday.’

Social media plays a significant role in promoting tradition. Smriti Irani’s ‘I wear handloom’ campaign on Twitter and the 100 Saree Pact are recent examples. Isn’t it time designers too found new ways to promote heritage?

Yes. As more and more Western brands enter the market, our designers must first establish an identity of their own. The Zaras of the world are bringing active prêt into the country, so it is important for us to revive the market for Indian clothes. Reinventing tradition and rethinking marketing strategies are critical at this point.

Has the hustle of today’s business taken fun away from fashion? How do you strike a balance between creative expression and commercial viability?

Oh, that’s very simple. I set my own rules. For instance, this year, I had too much on my calendar. I didn’t do ramp shows, I only had a showing on Instagram. Established designers must create new templates that suit their creativity instead of allowing the market to set the pace for them. Because, at the end of the day, only if you have the time and space for creative expression, can you create beautiful clothes that determine the durability of your brand.

If you were to spell out two major problems faced by the fashion world, what would they be?

Lack of originality. Lack of self-belief.

Fashion has evolved into a glamorous industry, and today, many youngsters want to be part of it. But most of what we see on the ramp and in the retail space are risk-free repetitions.

Well, for designers to evolve, the market has to evolve. But the mood is changing. There are designers who are willing to push boundaries and clients who are ready to experiment. Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram are changing the way people see and respond to fashion. The horizons are widening. This is a wonderful time for young designers to launch their labels and sustain their inventiveness.

Very few Indian designers have taken the effort to document fashion. What about you?

Yes, I will at some point in time get down to writing about my brand. But for that, I will first have to find the right publisher!

Many corporate players are keen on collaborating with designers.

I receive so many proposals for collaborations that I refuse one every day! I am collaborating with Asian Paints, Forever Mark and Christian Louboutin. Another huge one is coming up – but I will not be able to speak about it at the moment.

Do seasons really matter any more in the world of fashion?

Global warming is making designers understand the importance of season-defying clothing. And people too, I feel, don't shop for seasons any more. They just want beautiful clothes.

Can you update us on your forays into jewellery design and interiors?

I have collaborated with Hyderabad’s Kishandas & Company to create some iconic pieces that are hugely popular — and of course, plagiarised! I have a line coming up for Forever Mark. As for interiors, I wanted to design homes, but people did not seem to have enough confidence in me! (laughs) So I ended up doing up my own stores. I have also done up the Cinema Suite for the Taj in London. Celebrities who have stayed in the hotel have appreciated it. A significant collaboration in interiors is happening in October.

Your suggestions to keep traditions going…

People need to be educated about handmade textiles and crafts. A time will come when China will lose out to India because as people become aware, they will only want to support products that are ethically sourced and foster craft communities. Surprisingly, the new millennials are in favour of luxury that is completely handmade. I see that as a positive sign.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

An art movement is a tendency or style in art
with a specific common philosophy or goal,
followed by a group of artists during a restricted
period of time, usually a few months, years
or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the
movement defined within a number of years.
Art movements were especially important in
modern art, when each consecutive movement
was considered as a new avant-garde;

According to theories associated with modernism
and the concept of postmodernism, art movements
are especially important during the period of time
corresponding to modern art. The period of time
called "modern art" is posited to have changed
approximately halfway through the 20th century
and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art.
Postmodernism in visual art begins
and functions as a parallel to late modernism
and refers to that period after the "modern" period
called contemporary art. The postmodern period
began  during late modernism, which is a contemporary
continuation of modernism;             and according
to some theorists postmodernism
ended in the 21st century.       During the period of time
corresponding to "modern art"
each consecutive movement
was often considered a new avant-garde.

Also during the period of time referred to as        "modern art"
each movement was seen corresponding  
to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it,
concerning the visual arts. Generally
there was a commonality of visual style
linking the works and artists
included in an art movement.                      Verbal expression
and explanation of movements has come
from the artists themselves,
sometimes in the form of an art manifesto,
and sometimes from art critics
and others who may explain
their understanding of the meaning of the new art
then being produced;

In the visual arts,                           many artists, theorists, art critics,
art collectors,                                     art dealers and others mindful
of the unbroken continuation of modernism
and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era,
ascribe to and welcome new philosophies
of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists
posit that the idea of art movements
are no longer as applicable,                    or no longer as discernible,
as the notion of art movements
had been before the postmodern era.
There are many theorists however
who doubt as to whether or not such an era
was actually a fact;
or just a passing fad.

The term refers to tendencies in visual art,
novel ideas and architecture,
and sometimes literature. In music it is more common
to speak about genres and styles instead.
See also cultural movement, a term
with a broader connotation.

As the names of many art movements
use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism,
they are sometimes referred to as isms

National mindsets self interested suffer
forms of dementia as the order all confessed,
demands of each a concentration of self worth,
you bet your soul, but only in the spirit,
step into the fray, say, let me lead you,
say let me take elected office,
democratic to the edges, being your voice
in a popularity contest, not an intellectual joust.
Tutelary deontology 101.
Governing is managing the labor. Ask the king.
Any flock in the system, governs itself.
Business is business.
Some arrangements are always secret. All
grown ups are in the business of war supplies.
Let your children's minds be at ease.
Trust the checks and balances history proves,
have never worked on balance, for the poor.
Get rich quick as one can imagine, on a bet.
War meets Peace, like it is the storm
that left Greenland, a legend until now.

Easily intreated innocense, who could know.
Prosaic first morning pizz to prime the pump.

How deep is the generational debt due to war?
How many bonds have been sold to pay interest?
How many times has the national debt ceiling failed?
You know.
Every time.
"Each major conflict in U.S. history
has been accompanied
by a sharp rise
in debt as the government raises funds
to pay for the fighting."

But laws do exist…
"Without a declaration of war
to put the country on a wartime economy,
Congress paid for Vietnam
by increasing the national debt.
Over the course of the conflict,
America's debt nearly doubled, growing
from approximately $317 billion in 1965
to $620 billion in 1976."

Now the debt is rising
on interest alone. No need for another war.

And America's trade balance is hinged,
on the point of war.
The ideal centermost irritant, war's hate pump,
pain expanded by generational trespass acts
likened unto the pea
under the stack of feathered beds,
or the bit of grit forcing oyster stress
that has made the misshapen pearl sold
to sovreign entities, those colors on the map,
these mental aggregations called nations,
by nationalist mind frame riveters,
foundational eye beams, remove before demoting,
ah, slow, riveted beams spanning ferro-concrete tech- think.
Building a reasoning trap, children,
ask your fathers to whom we owe our national debt.
Ask also who sells the weapons to the world at war.
Semper fi,
no offence, but… holy hate is as crazy as hungry hate.

A voice from a song, from nowhere,
you just could rethink, or did, that first time think
a bridge over troubled waters being a truly old good idea,
come to rescue you,

in the early days of Boomer parenthood… being grown ups,
we never missed a Disney Movie, though by then,
they were losing the gnostalgia, old knowns to be like so,
were no longer even imaginably so.
Old Yeller,
Childhood's end, the separation
from hearth felt comfort,
to the class rooms and hallways
of massive cold concrete schools… where on day one,
the child pledges with its cohort of coeducatables,
the ancient bond of aliegiance...
I pledged mine first in 1954, the year "under God" was added.

In the just now settling down towns along the great freeways,
there has been no peace on earth in my generation,
at the level of military minds in conflict caused by stories,
boys bred with old hates just waiting for a sigh-psignal
sci-revealed to those willing to become Jason Bourne,
to the best of your abilities, ring the bell, any time.  

Welcome to the front. Sanity is on the line.
There is no conspiracy, we sell our souls for what money
can be demonstratively proven to allow and even augment.

War is all we sell. There is another game, it's a liar's game.
Many famous authorities have filled the space at the table.

Take your hat off, Bartholowmew, she does not understand you.

------------
Daily communication with myself,
one person, with no power to use
save the early cultural confidence;
sworn to tell the whole truth,
so help me, God. Yes, your honor.

Except we reactivate the curious why,
functionally suppressed during the standard
test taking by the proximate others
diligently filling in the blanks,
with graphite rounded just right, one swipe.

Except we see that hanging senselessly realized.
Each problem, one answer, not one option.
Only select correct answer.
Tell the child learning the pledge,
God is on our side, emphasize
how exceptional those who know so are,
extremely discriminatingly,
arranging the economy around
the great decussation at the air gap,
at the back of our national neck.

In this time,
thoughts and prayers, we hear
spoken of as easily done,
almost without thoughts, who
responds?, who, has ever responded
to the said to be going out constantly
thoughts and prayers, asking truth
to intervene and call the liars liars?

God is not angry, nor without resources,
according to the cultures now at war--
¿
Whose mortgage was not paid with earnings
from war readiness industrial complexes?

Whose talent was left with the userers,
because the Bible says y'sposed to earn interest?

Whose 401K deflated to oops?

Business begins with informed agreements.
Let's make a deal.
No killing, stealing nor needless destruction.

Minds join eye to eye, one mindwise agreed,
we become an entity, a being essential
to the parts, a mind in harmony, rank and file.

Greedy men with no agreement. Hmm, who loses?

Line up, not by rank, single file, fall in,
first and following, get in on the end,
and wait for the circle to close,
re done dances, life going wild as
we celebrate our circle, we sing of it
being unbroken in the sweet by and by…

The land of those who talk back to El,
yes, yes, we do, to honor Iyobe,
who first called for the Daysman,
who first
told reality, with all it's evil potential,
you cannot not be true, you know, in form
as spirit and truth containable in words, logos,
logos of all o-logies,
so powerful as to allow, in fact, cause, new mindforms,
species of thoughts that function as a system to make
sense, discernible, bits of valuation determinable in agreement.
--------------
Contractual obligations religiously adhered to
just between us, we take advantage for the nation's sake.
Madrassahs and aliegiance pledges set habits hard to break.

Set the cost of goods, lower than replacement cost of the price.
What does it cost a state to rear a warrior class individual
that self replenishes?

What does it cost me to scatter confusion in profuse create-ifity?
So, add a proper tip,
and pay the cost to ride this line to the next re-entering angle.
Middle east,
cauldron of all the holy empires thus far into the age
of entertainment so vast,
wise men can imagine, some day
there will be a war, and no parents will have
offered children to the infantry or made
righteous indignation acceptable national pride to k-ill for.

There Hamas, holy brainwashed haters of hatefulness.
Repents and perishes the very thought of peace.
Repay in kind, here, swear undying obediance,
fear not death, this is Allah's Promise, die killing Jews,
turns on the monstrous virgins awaiting you…
in post mortal walled places,
where the oldest civilizations occurred,
as God's great idea, I'll
empty the center of me, and seep
back in through fractured rationality
along trade routes between Africa and
the forested north above the desert.

Me, there, in mental efforting, thinking
thoughts, not prayers, but wishes, hopes,
thoughts that prayers attach to, as evidence.

"Ask and ye shall receive."
Love those who call you enemy, can you?

Face me, Mr. Nobody, the essence of other,
I declare peace, where none is, and you laugh.

No ritual, no enchantments with promise,
no sacred making of secular deaths, just
just just adjust the justice aspect, blame
the holy haters whose God dispenses vengeance,
at the behest of warriors fitted with military minds.

As when holy Americans gather to offer military aid,
blessed by the congregations alerted to intercede,
on the side that denies Jesus was God,--- ah, both sides,
in this case…
whither turn we, do we face Mecca, or Jerusalem,
or Petra or … Sol or Luna, all our enculturated faith,

blinks, a lense clarifying effort, rub the crust
of sleep fallen into while mourning, unsealing eyes
to see again, a war between two national identities,
both with warrior glory emulation traditions,
one with money as first de-fence, the other with hate,
nothing less than pure hatred, Cain to Able, sorry bro.

Old mean spirits.
If the hate can live in any man, wombed or un, it will.

Willingness to hate enough to k-ill a stranger, will
manifest as holy terror… enough to make Jesus weep.

--- and those were a few of the local thoughts made prayer,
seemingly automatically, as mysterious as most final secrets.

Part three, deeper, faster, harder… or not

Doings in the dark, are done by feel.
One, you or I, or some other sapien
augmented with the messiah's mind, feels the need for the deed.
Take the message from Garcia.

Mystic experience in story realms,
holding all the visions taken raw,
as revealed… as when a curtained
entry way is opened for inspection,

are we ideas in bodies?
are all ideas spirit in form?

Inhale an intuited absence of evil,
breathe the air of answered prayer.

Imagine that, let fly the idea of you,
beloved individuated potential saint.

Here is your sentimental inner edge,
your gnosis pressed flat as you see in.

The edge of this bubble, is distant
only to the holy cloaked in asceticism,
twisting wicks
for someday light in someday night,
circulate one way then the other,
rethinking perfected emptiness,
there are no others, up or down,
to and fro, vectors tie targeted states,
spider kites form single ray classic webbing,
slim banner, a flag unraveled long since.

Follow me, I say to me, follow me,
I say to you, saying back, I am not you.

My option.
Turn on, sit back and watch,
evolving cave wall interesting hooks,

look around, nothing interesting, eh?
Television as imagined by petrified apes,
during peak-info preservation history,
when men like Franklin and Voltaire,
met to share secret meanings of things.

Previous to any whole story
that remains, as when any mind mistakes
tzimtzum inside as first occurrence,

total emptiness, pre space, one time
this instant accepted as audience

in true gaseous we form, auto informing
the vegetable phaze passed eons ago, life
tells tales too esoteric for novices
to notice, in the ideal state, active
imagining, as with a child's mind, yours
since ever was, so far as you may wish
to remember,
a time when the state was deemed
comforting and beauty filled, chaotic
process of floating lipids, in form of air,
light has not dawned on us, we are
night scene setters of settings, nodes
of potential anything you can imagine,

level with me, even, straight, right… yes it
is the optional meandering mind engine,
an idol, or a daimon, madness of sorted
degrees, a little bit off the charts, sorted
out.
Not in, the bubble being becomes,
when one emerges in a self…

subtle is good, right, we agree?
Jesus, before Christianity, as a kid,
instructed with his cousin John,
likely by his temple servant uncle.

That can be imagined, projected
on the outerwall
of this bubble we be in.
At the moment,
on an Earth wired

for sound, elephants agreeing to meet,
to follow the pilgrimage, pilgrim beings
activated by stark necessity successful
to this degree…

by the reader's time's
at tension, pull
release
snap back, at what ifery, at once, push

most bottom centered point once sitting
in raw time thought processing, in
and out, efforting
- slightly off, not fully on
uncomfortable impression of holy
you better get better or else. Holy

blank slate, bubble pop, soft wow

Now, we're in the swirl, in the spin
toward, froward lips sealed, golden
silence,
subtler than any beast, creature,
living thing in the ruliad, am I? No.

BUT, you know, those penance prayers,
given you as a child, enchantments,
as with all your renouncements of evil
and pledges under God, in your child mind.

Look. To your own self, be true.
You still have private interpretation access
to your child mind.

If you put your worried mind to work
on some thought too deep to ponder then,

The idea of punishment by the Creator
of all that is not God, but was deemed good,
by God, because I said so, said the father,
in the child mind.

To know good and evil knowledge,
that talent, initial mark on our blank slate,
to know, not what you know, but ask
your child mind, how does it feel,

flat on your back gasping as others laugh,
and your child mind blooms an entire eon
- just to catch a breath takes for ever
and there were others, the whole family
of mankind of your kind, to your child mind,
stood laughing at your attempt to perform

a first flight, from an edged bet with an
I think I can virus perpetuated in ever after,

since mind made time make sense in chaos.
Instantly, things start to take shapes, in mind.
Non sense. Since. Processing time. Go.
Instants out of mind, in atari.
Fog of unknowns. I used to play the game.
Not really, only, one off thought forms,
cloudlike in symmetry, no clear tongue
and groove, fitting our pro-posed… pose

supposed, to listen and while listening,
learn the use of any knowing, can be
taken as granted possibility by your self.
- distant sound of light sabers actuation
Your blame and shame catcher, out front,
as we steam ahead across the gap,
thoughts made prayers must leap.

Keep your eyes on the prize, three
walnuts and a split pea with a hair, fine
infant hair, see it there, your old minds eye.

The unveiling of an artifice, an angle
greater than straight, from this point…
a re-entrant angle, like a point, banked shot.

in

we're sleeping in the sky
and eating the sun
our bed is Orion's belt
my pillow is the moon
we could run all day in the stars
and swim all night on the tails of comets
you keep galaxies in your pockets and i keep constellations on my fingertips
so ever collision makes gravity rethink itself
we've spent centuries ******* plasma out of nebulas
and playing jump rope with Saturn's rings
i want to be in constant supernova with you
and wrap myself in your universe

There is something discombobulating about feeling a shudder and a tilt, the models in front of you apparently moving slowly sideways, as the stand with your show seat starts to move in circles.

At the same time, the models at the Céline show seemed to be going off in all directions. Popping in and out of the black holes of space were models - young or older - wearing a smart green masculine trouser suit, a striped shirt, a white belted raincoat, something furry and - unexpectedly - a tunic and trousers printed with black wheels and checks skittering before your eyes.

All this and the bodies and arms of shadowy people behind the plastic backdrop. I rushed backstage to try to make sense of the show chaos (sorry: artistic intrigue), but designer Phoebe Philo did not want to talk when I asked her the point of her dramatic presentation of her Autumn/Winter 2017 collection.

"Just ideas coming together with lots of ideas," said the designer. "Just lots and lots of ideas and how they impact each other."

Around me, Phoebe's team were hugging and sobbing and clutching each other, as if this show were their last. Overview notes provided by the public relations people seemed even more confusing, apart from telling me that the installation (that required more electric cables and wires than I have ever seen above a fashion runway) was by French artist Philippe Parreno.

''The Céline AW17 collection explored Phoebe Philo's storytelling design process of how a collection is created and the notion of how changes result in impact," read the statement. "Further, the collection relates closely to the interconnected nature of women's lives and possibilities for women."

Before I read this, I had thought of Phoebe as the English designer who has her children running around backstage and who made practical but classy clothes for today's woman. She threw into the mix a few charming pieces like the fluffy flat sandals that have been picked up by other designers across the world.

With all that on offer, why did the new Céline collection have to complicate things so much?

Take away the moving seats and impossible-to-follow criss-cross of the models and there was the Céline look that any woman would crave: the bold, floor-length tailored coat; a tuxedo with its hemline sweeping right down to the ankle. The tailoring looked bigger, oversized even, which is in tune with the Eighties-style square shoulders that we have seen elsewhere this season.

Phoebe seemed to be offering a hardened version of the serenity she once found in streamlined clothes. An example of the new severity would be a plain, long sleeved dress with a hemline at mid-calf. Its softer side was a blue shirt elongated to the ankle and worn with trousers.

Ultimately, Phoebe offers 21st century elegance with the smooth lines disrupted by a tangle of fringe at the hem or what appeared to be a big blanket over one arm.

I received an overall impression of longer - to the ankle - length, a sense of sobriety and a few fanciful things for evening. What I missed in the hurdy-gurdy of the presentation, is, as yet, unknown.

With exquisite workmanship and Victoriana melded with pop, Pierpaolo Piccioli had a new vision of romance for the digital era.

Prudishness and pop - can the two really meld together? Yes! If the Victorian-style cape is in a vivid, sugary, postmodern pink and the dress underneath a colourful geometric pattern, recalling the Memphis era.

At Valentino, the 1880s met the 1980s with sensational results as designer Pierpaolo Piccioli dismissed the feminist vibe that has reverberated through the Autumn/Winter 2017 season yet created a collection that was respectful to and joyful for, women.

Just looking at the designer's four moodboards was a history lesson, as Pierpaolo whizzed me through dark Victorian carved birds, bright Memphis furniture, coral with a religious connection to Medusa - so much from the past crammed into one collection.

Yet on the runway, the result was far from overloaded, as the history of coral was subsumed into the necklaces all the models wore and the deflated Victorian silhouette - long and high waisted, but slim where a crinoline once was, seemed perfectly acceptable as a romantic vision of the 21st century.

"I wanted to add deepness and romanticism to the modernity of the shapes, so these are absolutely items that you can wear separately - a white shirt or the skirt with your own sweater," said Pierpaolo. "I think fashion is made for dreams, but sometimes you want a dream that is daywear."

The Valentino studios are at the heart of the matter, apparently finding it as easy to toss off a tailored coat with a mid-calf hemline nudging Victoriana bootees, as it is to make a soft, light dress to flow underneath. The detail and delicacy of the dresses seemed like an extension of the haute couture, but the designer was eager to point out that the clothes came from the Italian factory dedicated to Valentino.

Whether it is so easy visually to mix a sorbet pink top with tiny ruffles down the arms that flowed into a cherry ripe panelled skirt, the result was surprisingly calm. Even the dresses patterned with Memphis pop blended in with the plainer, pleated versions. And just when you thought that the show's high romance was over blown, the designer would slip in a black top over a pair of sloppy velvet trousers or calm a Memphis patterned dress with a tailored coat. A severe black jacket could be worn with anything already in the closet from an LBD to blue jeans. Like the tailored coats, it kept ripe femininity in check.

"For me it is important to keep the lightness, otherwise it doesn’t feel confident and if you don’t feel that you don’t feel beautiful," said Pierpaolo. "I think if you feel confident you can even be able to show your sensibility and really feel stronger."

However you rated the clothes - too fancy, too froufrou, too historical - there is no denying that Pierpaolo has created a vision that is respectful to women and which makes them feel beautiful. In a churning political universe, Valentino offers a small, still voice of calm.

Demna Gvasalia revisited Cristóbal’s silhouettes with surges of modern colour, print and volume.

Balenciaga haute couture has been revived for the first time since Cristóbal himself closed the house nearly half a century ago. The last nine outfits shown by creative director Demna Gvasalia, on the huge carpet patterned with the word 'Balenciaga,' had their roots in the legacy of grandeur left by the noble Spanish-born couturier, who died in 1972.

Demna, who started in fashion by building street-smart, unadorned clothes, deliberately named just Vetements (the French word for clothing), has turned towards the grandeur of the original designs that are part of the Balenciaga legacy.

“I thought 100 years was a good reason to make couture available again,” said Demna backstage. “We're not going to do a couture line or show during couture, but these pieces will be made to order – basically for people who want to buy a couture dress from Balenciaga.”

The grand offerings – the polka dot dress with bustle back, the layers of dark pink taffeta, and a slim black gown, all with large back bows, were not the only historic links. The show opened with tailored coats which were worn with a drape over the left shoulder, reminiscent of the way that the models of an earlier era would walk with their heads up, shoulders rounded and stomachs sunk in.

“I studied how the pieces are worn and I found these images from old mood boards of Cristóbal where women are standing with their coats like this,” the designer explained. “The idea was to bring this kind of elegance, the gesture of wearing those pieces, but take it into a kind of cool and make it more modern. You can also wear it in a normal way, but it is constructed so that one part is larger and then you can also pin it up. And this is what you see basically in all these books.”

Demna's way of rethinking with his brain what he had seen with his eyes is exceptional – and the reason why he seems able to update the house as if he were growing new shoots from existing roots.

The arrival of vivid colour signalled a change of pace, as every figure stood out in the farthest reach of the enormous sports stadium. The hosiery especially perhaps, in grass green, and cut-away waistcoats like harnesses in pastel colours, took the image of Balenciaga back to the early days of Nicolas Ghesquière and his futuristic period at the house.

Demna is also drawn by the flowers that were a part of the Cristóbal Balenciaga look; by showing a patterned skirt with big, bold, brightly coloured sweaters, he gave print a modern feel.

The show was not perfect. Mini dresses in the floral patterns and bright hose looked out of place. But the overall effect was precise but theatrical, with the couture creating a dramatic ending.

Choosing Demna may have been a gamble by François-Henri Pinault, CEO of Kering, the luxury group that owns Balenciaga. But the designer has turned out to be able to answer fashion's most difficult challenge: finding the balance between old and new, tipped towards the future.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses