Metaphorical Bananas

I have the first shoots of an idea and the tendency of course is to blurt it all out to myself and somehow apply it to just about every facet of reality. This is the ambition of most of my ideas and truly I need them to fall short of their dreams otherwise it would spell the end of the idea factory. Anyway, this particular idea centres around the observation that all the grand hopes I have need not be completed at all. All that is required is just a taste of them and the pain of not having them disappears and a regular taste keeps that pain in check.
I frequently long for some parkland-fraternity-deep-connection-experience and notice that merely an urban coffee with a minor friend abates that desire. Either it is the case that only a taste of the banana is required and not the whole fruit or that a metaphorical representation of that banana (also in a small taste doseage) is sufficient to keep my spirits high as if I had either eaten the entire banana or at least had started to eat it.

The Vision of Form

With the scene of the bedroom window, the dainty tips of the young birch trees, the roof tops and the pale blue sky I am gently alert, sitting on the creaking wicker chair looking at the scene with curious eyes. As I move to each component of the scene, let's say the chimneys, the other parts of the composition are, by being out of focus, no longer truly what I previously called them; the tree tips are only the vaguest of forms- brown-ish, stick-ish and whether they are swaying or not is now in doubt; I perceive some movement but I can no longer be sure. In the end, I cannot determine any of the forms unless I am narrowly attentive to them. So it is, I believe, with any of my doubts, beliefs,ideas, knowledge, convictions, prejudices, truths and any other of the contents of my thinking. Once I pay full attention to one of the components now the rest of them de-forms, fragments as if the robustness of its form was only me-specific. Thus the grand delusion of all mental constructs reveals itself.

And if I spread my eyes across the whole scene necessarily nothing is in-focus; everything is given an equal, formless, motionless value. And then, even more alarmingly, I notice that

Adam and Eve Street

Down Adam and Eve street I sit looking from the broad windows of a modern cafe. An old lady looks at the necklaces in the jeweller's window. Whatever is she thinking?Is there a connection between the toffee-coloured walls above the shop and her? Is there a meaning to the space between the shop window and the bedroom above? Can I see her soul by the way she sniffs her large nose and levels her head to march off? For a moment I think I see not her thinking but the limits of her thinking; they are contained within wet marble walls and I think I detect the mildest smell of freshly-baked bread in the majority of her impulses. Does her red scarf relate to the morning? It is mainly damp and grey. Is there an intelligence that would connect her to the day, the scarf, her nose and the windows? and one that would toss them all upon my senses?