Bottling & Blotting

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”
“Hemorrhaging money”
“Rock climbing”
“Tight spaces”
“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”

The sunset under water

Diane’s Funeral:
Down to the river to pray

(Alison Krause)
Father Along

(Ellen Mcilwaine)
Show some emotion

(Joan armatrading)

I rose early and went. Tasmanian beach; no waves roll in. Only a quiet lapping at the shores. Squeaky sand. Paddling out, thinking Harold Holst. The cold is like being squeezed between giant hands. I exhale pins and close my eyes. A few bubbles swirling from my nose, up and out. A fattening. My heart beat is sharp, pressuring tears. No toes to feel. My open eyes are below it all. The sun rises now. now light streams. Silver gloss. Thoughts chaining. Just sparks flittering. Above currents. Streaming, streaming. Below the surface, prickled eyes perceive flits of white. Circles hollowed out. Ashtray eyes. Flat light, disperse silk. Saturating skin. Sight as sense is static. White mixes with a wash of red and blue. 
Suddenly all of a sudden.

Like wine he turned to acid-

broken nails, pregnancy scares.
The enjoyment of he exhale over the inhale.

I told her:
Your hands are nothing,
compared to the ocean.

My heart is a mirror.
your heart is a mirror?
Narcissus looks into your heart for all of time.
My grubby fingers stain.
You put your hands in my mouth,
I taste salt
Salt and citrus.

MOGWAI = ANGUISH QUENCHED WITH ZENITH

While for others it was standing at the gate of hell.
in your monday worst.

And she, she.
She beat me at pool.
Didn’t like coup.
Love speed and sex and showers.

And she said one or two unique things:
I CAN ONLY CREATE ART AFTER MIDNIGHT.
“I’m sorry, i’m so emotional”
She was sick, is sick. Smoking, coughing. Quiet.
Quite, quit a stupid.

She didn’t eat enough, low on energy, back rolls.
Smiling, great teeth, nice hair and frame.
Out of bounds.
Trying me for a baby, not giving in.
And finally: She finished my sandwiches.

I wrote, and now I delete

Utilizing an Ecocritical lens to identify social anxieties for Rick stemming from Shane’s “light-switch story”. The repetition that’s seen in the post-apocalyptic dystopia and return to nature, is foreshadowed as an idea in Shane’s quip over the consumption problems that face humanity because of women’s inability to turn off light switches. The Freudian association is made through the familial link that Shane makes relating to the reaction of women to this criticism: “You sound just like my father”. This view is entirely problematic and informed by patriarchy. Under the guise of a joke, which Freud again would suggest is an attempt at relieving anxieties about matters of “dire importance to the subject”. Shane’s little tale finishes with him saying “at least I tried” which underpins in its entirety his own failings. The first season of TWDthrough its narrative navigation of word and image that allows for a graphic reiteration of there being no safe place while emphasising humanity’s dependence on fossil fuels as problematic. The dire concern that “the world is run on fossil fuels” (TWD. TS-19) is reiterated in both texts and employs a regime of verisimilitude through which the reader is interpolated.

Wht are you thinking about?

What are you thinking about I asked my sister?
“mind your own fucking business and have your own fucking thoughts” – My mind answered.

“Just planning out my day” She said. She was distant, vacant stare.
I poked her.
I told here that she was in possession of a human body and that whatever she decided to do would be the right decision. (Leaving out the part that whatever she decided would also be the wrong decision). Trade-offs.
Always everywhere.

X-Day today.
Xavier everything.
X for Christmas.
Death. Poison. Treasure.
I am getting a cold.
Been feeling cold.
I’ll go for a run, get the heart pounding.

Thinking of my brother and our friend Trav.
Thinking music, making plans.
Jorgia, walking.
Penny, talking.
Alex, taxing.

and we all fall down.

I might change my sheets.
Time is scarce, but I have so much of it.
So much scarcity in my world.
I need to print. I need to edit, write introduction and functions.
Riddle in some content.
Critical analysis, follow on, dream-states. Oedipus!

My mind’s running, my nose running, the tap running.
And we all fall down.
Teeth gritty, midday and only just awake.
No drive, need for early mornings.
Power naps, to fully lose a day.
and to be wrecked, over do it.
Done and done. Kilian, the sherrif in town.
Watermelon jokes.
Telling wild tales.
forgetting to buy the coffee pot.
forgetting and forgetting and memory.
lost and writing something for Jazmine,
Jazz’s birthday. and the use of apostrophe.
and Harvey. Bird Man. Attorney at Law.

Human time

Nuts and bolts I said.
I wasn’t wearing any underpants.
Flonk flonk flonk.
I bought an old cologne.
We spoke of Agriculture.
We talked of music.
Speaking of things that you enjoy.
Music, friends, the elixir.
Concoctions, like acid potion.
What’s your poison.
And coffee (white).
Introductions and chatter.
Entering competitions.
Exhilaration, better get back to work.
So so so many distractions.
Buy wrapping paper.

Flights flights FRIDAY.
Bookings and all that extra information.
Stress.

Emotionality = caring.
Revulsion revolution.

Idea
NOT idea.

Naked me, showing an ordinary penis to the people that asked.
Class. Comfortablilty in their uncomfort.
SUREDE SUEDE SUEDE.
bali. BHAAL. BAAHL.
Diablo, yo go ho ho ho/

YELTOUR. ROUTLEY.

WALLEY YELLAW.
W
WAL
WALDO ODLAW.

BOTS AND NUTS.

Sunderwater

I rose early and went. Tasmanian beach; no waves roll in. Only a quiet lapping at the shores. Squeaky sand. Paddling out, thinking Harold Holst. The cold is like being squeezed between giant hands. I exhale and close my eyes. A few bubbles swirling from my nose, up and out. A fattening. My heart beat is sharp pins in neck and the tear ducts. No toes. My open eyes below the surface. The sun is rises now, now. Gloss of light streams. Thoughts flow. Just sparks. Above, it all would be streaming, streaming. Below the surface, prickled eyes perceive flits of white. Circles hollowed out. Flat lights, dispersed silk. Saturating my skin. Sight and all senses are static. White mixes with a wash of red and blue.