Albert Camus

Red Cloud of Reality

Red Cloud of Reality

Far from the city lights
this night sky
a black umbrella
held above my head

the brolly’s fabric
pierced by pin-pricks
silent stars careless
in their indifference

las night a cloud of unknowing
descended – wrapped itself
blanket-like around my house
brought warmth and comfort

today I sit alone and lost
head in hand – searching for sustenance
seeking the freedom to sky walk
to turn schemes and dreams into facts

Person holding a glowing umbrella overlooking a neon cyberpunk cityscape at night
A figure under a starry sky, holding an illuminated umbrella.

Big Brother painted this.
He’s watching you.

Comments:

Me and Moo back sharing poems and paintings, thoughts expressed in words and paint. How nice to be together again. Never mind the weather, as long as we’re together. Careful now, The Red Cloud of Reality is not part of a Wild West Show. There are no elephants and kangaroos in this part of the world. How cryptic can we be? I don’t know. Look carefully at Moo’s painting. Can you see an elephant or a kangaroo? Not unless they are fossilized, methinks. Fossilized before our eyes. Oh what fun it is to ride on a one engine sky red slay along with the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Lone Ranger. But how can he be a Lone Ranger if he’s accompanied? Don’t ask me, ask Tonto. Jay’s the one who knows everything. He even knows who that masked man is. I know, I know – he’s a survive of Covid, very wise, because he always wore a mask. And what did you do during Covid? Well, I didn’t shine bright lights inside my system. I didn’t drink Drano – a cure all for everything, if you’re a drain pipe. Me? A drain pipe? I don’t even wear drainpipe trousers. Oh those were that days. No parking meters outside our doors to greet us! Fings aint what they used to be. Figs, neither. And that’s why Syrup of Figs is all the rage Even better than Cod Liver Oil. I bet you don’t remember Scott’s Emulsion? Indeed I do. I also remember Eno’s Fruit Salts. Made you really happy they did as you rowed merrily, merrily down the stream of consciousness into the Land of Nod. You mean Toytown – the land of Noddy, Big Ears, and Mr. Plod. Big ears? See – an African Elephant. I knew there was one in there somewhere. And here he comes, blowing his own trumpet. How does an elephant commit suicide? I won’t tell you. I refuse to give King’s Evidence, even if you do put me in the soup – Cream of Kangaroo Court, of course. I bet you didn’t see that one coming. Hop along, now. Here comes Cassidy les Calanques and he don’t wait for nobo-doddy even if his name’s really Ken. I don’t get it. I didn’t get it either. That’s how I stayed clear of Covid. Ha! Try translating that little piece from Welsh into Basque. You’ll end up in a basket, cased like all those other little boiled egos, with their little legos. Never mind – “il faut imaginer Moo heureux!” / We must believe that Moo is happy.

Rage, Rage 32 & 33

Rage, Rage
32

I miss
the swish and roar
of my incoming,
outgoing breath.

I miss
those Full Moon fingers
tinkling the tides
of my inner being,
making me strive
to keep myself alive.

My body’s house,
devoid of gnomes,
wolves, and pipes,
lies vacant and silent.

The full moon’s
rampant skull
empties the sky of stars
and fills my mind
with cratered shadows.

33

Strange creatures hide in the mist
that overcomes my brain.
I see the sudden flash
of sharp, lusting midnight teeth,

My heart turns into
a time bomb ticking
its irregular beat
in the cavity of my chest.

Am I a victim, then,
as Camus suggests,
or just another assassin?

A suicide bomber, perhaps,
with explosives strapped
inside my rib-cage
rather than round my chest
in a hidden vest?

Tick-a-tock
and tickety-tick-tock,
I can hear and feel
the arrhythmic clock
alarming me
as it arms itself in my chest.”Tick-a-tock
and tickety-tick-tock,
I can hear and feel
the arrhythmic clock
alarming me
as it arms itself in my chest.”

Comment:

So, Moo has just come back from wherever he’s been and wherever it was, he’s not telling me. However, he does say that I look All Shook Up. And he’s humming Elvis Presley songs at me. And the above painting is his suggestion for me for today. “Thank you, Moo. And welcome back.” He nods at me. “Good to see you two,” he says. “You spelt that wrong,” I tell him. “I didn’t,” he says. “We all know you’re a split personality and I am saying that I am pleased to see both halves of you again.” Oh, dear, you can never win with Moo. He always paints a different angle or comes round in a wiggling circle. “Ha!” he says. “At least I don’t paint myself into corners.”

Am I a victim, then, as Camus suggests, or just another assassin? Interesting suggestion. We are either murderers or victims. But I haven’t murdered anyone, that I am aware of. And I don’t feel myself to be a victim. So what is my dear friend Albert on about? Alas, he isn’t around to ask. I just have to read his books and see myself left wondering.

I guess it was all different in Paris, in the 1940, during the Nazi occupation. Anyone can talk a good game, but what do you do when the Gestapo knock on your door at 2:00 am? Good question. Existence precedes essence. We live. We survive. That’s Jean-Paul Sartre. And so is this – “L’homme n’est rien d’autre que ce qu’il fait.” Man is no more than what he does. So there you have it. It’s never what you say you might do, or how you relate things in respect – it’s all about what you are doing right now. So – ask yourself that vital question – “What am I actually doing?” The answer you give will tell you a lot of things about yourself – if you are honest in what you say.