Its been two weeks since I wrote.
I’ve been recording things but I feel the reverse pull of time.
Exhausted by the future.
Drained by the cold.
Fearful of what’s coming.
Taken by my aging bones.
I want to be bold
and share some thoughts.
Wishing to be brilliant.
Wanting recognition. Waste and wine and anger boil and fizz in my hands and feet. Like pin pricks and the works of others. What can I take for better understanding of the current world. Take it all out of context.
“I was with someone”
“Your book is ready”
“Learning French/Look at flights”
“Adventure, ice skating, overland track, run, walk, chill”
timing, timing is everything.
And the marathon at the end of this month. Only a week away, scares me so.
and the timeline, the suffering and fear that I have now.
The loss of energy the worries. The writer in me that I want to focus on.
To write ecologically unsound, unsavory, afraid, worrying thoughts down.
Doing things in my spare time, that’s the worry.
Plenty of time for that young man.
What’s the fear? What’s the rush, why the crutch?
Don’t use your education that way – focus focus.
And the ship shuddered.
Like floating icecubes in a drink, jumbled and marching. The propeller it was said had broken off. So there we were. Set adrift.
And Wendi is here. I have only fear, to say hello and shake hands and make her felt welcome. But things are more complicated… Must they be? We say one thing and mean another. I desire the unrecompensable. I cannot ask for one element to be returned. I cannot write a letter than cannot be read.
And you’re lost to me. The changing of wood by fire. The burning of oil for light and fumes. The magic of white light and rainbows. The healing property. The majesty. We are so insignificant over this distance. The power of light over the capabilities of humans. What can you do? What can I do. What can we do? And we are not ‘We’ at all. And the chances to meet up grow slim. And the slippery surface that’s our icy reflection when next we skate is blue, dry lipped and ghostly. I don’t know how to go forward without the fear of falling right down. And all I think of in the morning is food, just to get me through. Sleeping in, worrying, fearing, hurting, angst.
And I wait for a girl. I spend time, but my heart might not be in it. I’m not happy where I am. So I am dangerously frail. Lost to the people that I might love. Lost to myself. Afraid of the first step from bed. Ice on the flat of my foot. Hands blotched. And MONA. the art of it all. To be anti-art. You are hailed by everything you know and do. You become the books you read, the things you do and I fear i’m doing nothing worthy. Not one thing.
“I bump my head when i’m angry”