Our military man, needing to relive himself wandered a short distance into the forest. By the ravine and the bridge, he pulled down his trowsers, only to be disturbed by two dark skinned children who merrily crossed the bridge from one side of the ravine to the other. Our man pulled up his trousers swiftly and pretended he was out for a walk, admiring the view. Lagging behind the kids, was their father. The group of them walked back towards the town, which was occupied by our man and his fellow troops. Past razor wire and big trucks which rumbled by. Our man, spoke with the father, who was considered and walked slowly with his hands in his pockets. The father recommended a book, which by sheer coincidence our man had read on the plane over. 3 short pages. The father brought the book from his pocket and asked our man what he thought of the middle passage where the school burnt down and the children were all trapped inside. Our man, frowning, said it was a horrible scene that depicted perhaps many things. The end of childhood, the ravages of war and human cruelty. The father nodded, passing the man the collection of short stories ‘as a gift you see’.

Later that day our man read the opening page of the book, where a soldier walked into the forest to relieve himself, only to be stumbled upon by two children and their father. They crossed the bridge. The soldier didn’t notice, and the father struck him across the head with a club and rolled his body over the cliff edge. Later that day the school burned.

Sometimes I clean above eye line, as a joke. It’s like having a secret. Knowing that out of sight, the door frame has been wiped clean of dust and grime.

My first born son, Yadayada .

He tells me, he tells me, that he wants to be a gardener. But he won’t even mow the grass.

I said, Yadayada, you wanna be a gardener?! You get in the yard, and cut the grass in the garden ya little shit.

When he recieved a new pen as a gift, he wondered what should be the first words to be written. Immediately the pen did not work. He licked his finger to moisten the nib. And after some slow purposeful circles the ink finally began to run.

On a piece of brown scrap paper, below an old list from earlier he wrote, ‘Thankyou for your service’.

The ink ran and ran. Until his wrist begun to hurt.
The hurt was great.

What colour wine do Horse People drink?

I think white. Core belief.

The Australian receptionist greeting that gives you very little information on how long you’ll be waiting.

Poor guy, had a full bladder at Radiology and came in for his appointment 1 week early.

“He’s gonna blow!”

And so here I am, typing on the keyboard. Like many other keyboards. With the keys in an order, as there are many others. Not like the French say, but the outcome, yes the result may well be the same.

And so, here we are arriving with the convenience of legibility. Some of us with the luck and happenstance to decode. The word, lost in the sea. As if bubbles were more important than other bubbles.

And so I came to realize that what I was writing was mine, but once removed. Hosted elsewhere, saved in a cloud, a great anti-bubble in the sky. Permeable, impermeable, semi-permeable. Spelling supported, meaning contrived.

And so there I was, looking at images of people standing on a large tree stump, the tree is gone now. It must have been old. That is a message, without it it is sad, it is the without that hurts. Like the ache of knowing when something is there but you cannot see it. You cannot visit it. Pain both ways. With and without.

And so I thought to myself, perhaps only to make it better. To bandage the hurt. To shield my heart. “It’s not real”. Anything, and everything you have the chance to see through the lens of a digital screen has the potential to be un-real, fabricated, painted, generated, “realized”. The tree is not real. The image is not real. We cannot trust this screen. We cannot trust this time. I don’t trust generated writing.

And so we are jammed between the possible unreality of this rectangle, sacrificing physical truth for a convenient lie. Resting and waiting for us to die.

“What colour is that”

Is what?

THAT

Open your mind like a box of treasure
Turn over thoughts at your leisure
Some of hope and others pleasure
Pains un-boxed will not feather

Instead led out by the nose
“You casted invis?!” – remember those…
Let passion lie among the rose
And fast friends go unto the crows

I ask forgiveness from my mind
Softer thoughts, I beg and blind
As dust brush off a tome of time
Dignified un-signified, here I’ll sign.

The first thing I noted, arriving Melbourne late Wednesday was the oak tree’s near John Street. Branches parting down the middle. Like an office worker trying to do the spits over a power cords. Straddling, legs like bridges.

Past the first nine waves

Beyond the head chills, and cold feet.

Ringing in my ears.

Green rocks and golden light.

Perfect surprises warming our hearts and making it all better. In the end.