Set & Setting – let me have this breakthrough.

A tiny dose of the house of god, I can hear my heart beating. I’ll conjugate my past self until i’m put away.

Lindsay ate the last of the Migoreng. I was humbled, distraught and dishonered. I’d been toiling all day but there was no respite to be had in a bowl of steaming hot MSG noodles. My heart ached. By valves sqwonked on and off. My eyes scratched with parched tears in the air conditioned room. There was, no more Mr Mighers.

Asthma puffers

Panadol

Heart palpitation medicine

Bandaids

Note pad

Bad smell

Very tall (6”3)

High visibility tight shirt

“30 years ago, I took medication that made my skin sensitive”.

Looks like he has outgrown his skin

Unpredictable character

With a forced audience, have you ever worked in sales?

Asked to become umpire

12th of Feb 1977

Grew up in: Wynyard.

Blacklisted from the team.

Poor guy looked he’d had a hard life. Came in looking for a bumbag.

He tried to be a close talker, his belly rested on the misc objects.

Wooden table, beautiful macrocarpa, strewn with the medical history of this ghost. Diabetic and lumbering, a scroll like medication list told all that his GP had tried.

“My bumbag has frayed” he said to me. Lumbering and lolling, back and forth from right foot to left.

And his glasses were the kind that you could flip the shades down and up, down and up.

He told fibs. Lies, confused curling misinformation about knowing “people in high places”. The boss of the AFL would pay for his clothes if only he could get to Victoria. Size 15 shoes were his carriage, he’d never hitchhiked and had only travelled once, from Wynyard to Hobart.

Guessed age: 65

Having a warm, unfiltered heart, all showing, like a mushroom in spore. So refreshing, his tears, completely out of context, confronting, uncomfortable, real emotions, laid bare were his troubles to the front girl of the counter.

It’s times like these that I wish that pain showed as a colour on your skin.
Like a bruise – what’s the threshold? How can you tell?

Internal lies. Lies. External truths, lived, fabricated or otherwise.

A simple example might be when you’re at a bar, timeless group location, and someone asks you “We’re conducting a survey of public opinion that looks into the importance of Cultural and Ethical Diversity, Multiculturalism and the assimilation of migrants”. If your response is “What?”. Then your friend might translate or rephrase the question and ask you “Is multiculturalism important to you?” and you might respond, “Yes”.

SIGHT
1.The roof is warped and bubbling
2.An indescribable light blue
3.A chain resting on a toilet seat
4.The sun setting red
5.A smoke machine billowing from a tea-pot.
SMELL
1.Soft, mellow lemons
2.Roasted, ground coffee beans.
3.My own socks and the sweat.
4.White powder doesn’t smell – it drips salt & lime – intoxication
5.Wood smoke
TASTE
1.Lemon Calipo
2.Two breakfasts; cheese, eggs, beans
3.Light roast coffee, tart, bitter
4.Orange in a cocktail
5.Cigarette coughs.
TOUCH
1.The cool of room temperature water.
2.Rough hands
3.Rusty eyes
4.Scratching armpits
5.The smooth metal outside of a plane
HEARING
1.”What is that ringing sound?”
2.New music
3.Someone spitting
4.An explosion of coke
5.Laughter of friends

SOC
My stomach is full of beans. It’s a good feeling, not too uncomfortable you know? It’s nice getting back in the swing of things. I had an OK day, missed a deadline, got shouted at – but it was all OK. I have just the right amount of plans in life – to get me from here to there. I’ve always been envious of people who are “steady”. Got it all ticking along. I want my routine to be so that if it’s interrupted, it’s a blessing for others. Like if someone was to stumble into my garden, they would be teleported into another world of majesty, beauty and effort. This reminds me; I should probably purchase a big red Japanese style gate, similar to those found at the Inari in Japan. Gifts are great.

Special K
The couch, I was paralyzed. Lyric-less beats played on and ricocheted around the room softly, gently. My two new friends invited me to share. My head lolled and my breathing slowed. They asked me what I saw. I gushed unfinished sentences. Spewing nonsense. There was no beginning, no entry point to capture all that I was seeing, feeling, hearing, remembering, knowing, say-saying. No doorway, just a revolving wheel, the waters of my mind flooding over senses freely. I lolled left, an ugly black-eyed face. Always there, so often friendly, asking and caring. Distant and coming closer; searchingly it glinted, eyes, nose, fore-head glinted, narrow and sharp.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s blue and indescribable’ I said.
It was a three colour stroke, with a ghost like a chess piece in the middle. It had depth and a shadow, lines that hinted at three dimensions like a corner of a room.
The grounding space was the roof that we all sped towards. Intersecting lines, warped past as I blinked slowly. Too slow.
‘The roof is warped, warped and bubbling’.

How could it not be that things keep happening all at once.

Constant waves, the tumult of action. Repercussions awash.

Smashing explosions of surf blasting force into rockfaces.

Eroding, barrels upon barrels curl and grip at sand with clumsy fingerless effort.

As the surfs retreats into the great body it folds and kicks up.

Explosions in the sky. Whitewash. Salty multidirectional pulses.

Blood tasting, eyes rolling, humans, cattle, the ocean.

Only for a time are we still, forgetting the tempest. Soaking up peace until the rush begins, all over again.