Not sure if i’ve been over doing it.
I’ve been having toast for breakfast most mornings.
Yoga before that, and again in the afternoon. Just tried a “long, slow, deep” class last night. It was wonderful and felt authentic. Really quite enjoyable.
The new woman taking classes. “Kelly” I think she calls herself is a little bit too nasal. Chipper, and chummy. A fair dinkum chump. A touch too loud. Does not put me at ease. I don’t relax around her. I don’t rest.
Fare. Food. Fair. Nice. Okay. Deep.
ambiguous words!

Associatives in words.
Contraction – pregnancy.
Consenting – sex
Subtle gearing. Undertones and ripple.
Light shining on my face, eyes closed, lids red.

Negative Alternatives.
I’m sore but i’m not broken.
I’m stiff because i’m cold. I’ve been working, late nights.
Thinking of J and not G.

Your family could be gone; you the only one left.
You could have been born without a leg, or other limb of a kind.
Fallen from a cliff.
Been poisoned.
Not been born (a blessing)? – No. Not for tears, but for want of laughter and meaning.
You could have been brought up in a different time.
Oppressed even.
Malnourished.
You could have been caught stealing;
Had your hand remove.
Been impotent (be) – let’s hope.
Lived a shorter life.
Had a lover that died in your arms.
These, these other stories. Some may be true.
They may just have happened to you.
But if they have not, feel blessed.
And if, if they have: I, and many others like me are here for you.
You have experienced early.
Done what others have not, not yet or will never.
Store that. The thoughts, memories.
Not one thing you have done has been done before.
Temporally, physically, mentally. Unique in one’s tragedy.
In life. You are experienced. Own up to this.
You can, from this insight bless and help others, and in likeness they may help you.
I will listen, as will they.
To suggest and help where we can.
Open your mind to the possibilities and the happiness in your position.
Free yourself from torment.
Don’t punish yourself with suffering
and thoughts of deserving or undeserving.
Focus only on the one thing.
One.
Pretend you are sick.
Think of yourself with a lack of energy.
Now imagine you have only two breaths left to live.
Find peace.
Rest. Be slow to this comfort.
With each breath you find another the gives life. Where each is the last before your last.
Embrace the ritual. The magnitude and seriousness of your life.
Don’t furrow your brow or let air get caught in your long neck.
Rest in the slow elongated laneway to your lungs.
Treat them as one.
Ride your chests rising and falling.
Puff up as if to float, surfing a wave in, to the shore.
Find simple resolve in yourself.
Free from soreness.
your stiffness becomes liquid-
Join with your senses.
Find warmth, meander through your thoughts as they come.
To you. Break from anger.
Restrain nothing.
Seek what you want.
Allow what you have found, only you.
Yourself, not distraction.
A gift of breath, flesh and muscle.
Present.
Walk in your mind, move now- in joy.
Blissfully, say nothing. For that is your want and mine.
I am with you.
Smile and give only that.
Sit with your cognitions now.
Stare out, with gentle focus-
a bountiful aura of enjoyment. Can you?
Walk on-
and mind not the price of visiting upon yourself nourishment.
Water with herbs, or honey, milk or spice.
Walnuts.
Baguette and the oil of olive.
Figs and cheese.
Choose with cherubian glee.
Eat one something, you enjoy. But in small portion, make your body utilize each tiny fragments for sustenance.
Sip water patiently.
Guzzling is to rush through life’s needs and mistake one’s wants.
Count to a high number, as is your want
Laugh after eating.
Feel jolly and patient, recognising your impatientness-
maybe tired, itchy or unaccustomed to your surroundings.
breath into your surroundings. From your calm internal craft an external you wish to be at peace with.
Rock from side to side. A gentle sway.
Find a writing tool.
Draw circles until you are tired, or the tool runs dry.
Stretch up your arms.
Bend your back, back.
Forwards. Now rotate your chest.
blink strongly.
Feel the reverberations in your ears.
Smile.
Breathe in and make any sort of sound.
Lick your lips.
Swallow.
Smell
You are ready.

Memory place. Thought centre. Centre. SENT A. Cent hey. Scent her.
And her scent today, this morning was lapping over my comfortable walls.
Stalwart. Stoic. Red eyed. Dripping.
Yoga this morning, human puddle.
Emotional tyranny.
Tyrannosauraus resc-you. Ressuscitate me.
Men in arms, don’t feel that much.
Cohen- speak to me and i’ll react. Tinny stage performance.
I wait for the battery to.
Flat flat flat, beat. Click your fingers.
Wash your clothes. Your aching back, a late start.
The holy voice of the choir.
The songs almost without word, but full of meaning.
The message, its feeling. Affects me so.
Like a running tide, to evaporate and shower.

I’m impatient. I want to trawl deep withing myself for words and soulful sounds.
Reflections of value.
I thought of asking a person a “complec” a complex question today.
“Stop me if this is too much, but what do you attribute value too in your life”
And they would say, “OK”. And that would be it.
Because they would stop me, but that wouldn’t stop anything truly. If a question is asked the effects follow. The thoughts tangent. The reaction cannot be stoppered!
So then give it time, and they will answer.
They will give a delayed response, maybe not even to you.
Its queer.
I feel like that’s going on now with Wil.
The sidetracked things I say, the pot that I stir in him and others.
The entertainment. The value, the seriousness. The mistakes, the friendships born of sharing to be burdened by violence, disagreement and anger.
POP! And the bubble bursts.
The bubble burts!. Bert. And you’ve earned yourself a mono-brow of plastic that covers your nose. Breathe if you can.
Pink and purple, grey white, flavourless.

I think i’ll go to the beach.

I put on clothes. They have a past, they have meaning.
Gifts from family members. Dear to my heart.
I look for connections between things;
things out there, actions, reactions, specimens, examples.
In the ether, the cosmos. The shapes of words.
Their beginning letter, the function of them towards meaning.
Nothing has meaning.
Human kindness and interactions! Surely.
Sure enough. Surely surely.
But we are limited by form. By the existence of forms.
I find myself prickling at the need, yet my loss for invention.
My eyes, peering over.
Peering at.
Peering.
Looking at a distance. A stretch of space I could measure out if I had the will for it.
The want.
W.
Meaning.
Shareable.
Relateable
Real.
Repeatable.

“I’m over insided”. That’s what she said.
She, the girl, woman, person that I don’t really know.
I asked, after telling her I was “OK”, that I didn’t know what that meant.
She’d “been inside all day”.
I spoke of how I wanted to go to the beach.

I bumped into some people I knew later that day. I lied. I exaggerated.
I’d done it before. Its just, that conversations of the nature where you can embellish, well- I suppose I choose to detract from their meaning.
Its a narration of the thought, its a sick twist, underlining the matter.

Some of the people I message. Jasper, Julia – didn’t respond.
Jasperation I called him.
Ju-Ju, I called her.
I asked about yoga, their lack of response suggests that I “find my own path”.
What a selfish crowd. It makes my ducts flood.
My neck withers and wilts, must I look up to save face. Give a moment for the thoughts to drain down the back. Over the waterfall, the sink of my neck. Emptying into the eddies of my trunk and limbs.

I’m searching still. Sitting, staring, peering, looking.
Using all that i’ve observed, heard and felt. I’m swirling it all together in my pot of a mind. Black thoughts, trying- piecing.
Thinking of ways to reduce mystery to simplicity and pierce into the fabric of natural order. Using these tools! These tools of words.
Thinking in order. Associating one object to another.
Similes!
Metaphors.
Simplifying, and reducing where I can, bringing together things that aren’t the same and seeing them as one. As they are or might be on another scale.
I have no scale!
This Horten Heard A Who.
This physic.
“UNDERSTANDING MODELS” will be the book title.
All things, unique, grande and small are one and the same.
Sometimes, something, somehow, somewhat, somewhat is someother.
And that other is all.
And I will live to see and feel some of it true.
But not all.
So much is lost, and the cold sets in.
I stretch and grow old, without the possibility of regeneration.
Plant a potato on my grave. Scatter my ashes as you want.
To the wind or as a fertilizer.
I will have will for nothing more.
We should keep track of ourselves, maybe that will change how we evolve for better.
Epicurean.
Cheese knives.
Chess.
Games.
Models. Systems, plans, rules, organisations.
Emotions, feelings, reactions, words, sight, smell, hearing, feeling, taste, altered, normalized.
Think how you will, the distance unmeasured in the kitchen.
The flowers from the funeral growing old themselves, go un-smelt by me.
They wither, I look at the ceiling. Trying to comprehend a black hole.
Is it cancer?
Are we men and women two parts of a virus? No, we’re not like a virus. We are alive.
Are cells in their basic forms like viruses? What does bacteria do? If I kiss you with an open mouth am I trying to kill you? Do we react so badly to one-another?

What would happen if I spent 4 days in water. Does water eventually erode you? When would the sore appear? Would I die? Just a tank, up to my neck. What would my skin do? How would I feel?
Basic human needs. Eat, drink, defecate, urinate, word-ate.
Share.
And how you view all things, what you’ve heard, what you’re willing to share at the dinner table, what you wear on your sleeve.
Like sleet. I’d rather sleep.
Hollow breaths. Tired mind, swirling mind.
Self talk, at a loss to the patterns that emerge. In gravity. The helix, the symmetry, the natural forces, the mathematics, the shape of a circle is unnatural. The center, the centre: it doesn’t exist.
Its not graphable, its not the model, its not real.
Its a construct. Very imaginative. Points on a board.
Bored I am, without invention and discovery we are just entertaining ourselves.
Our identities, our sex, our money.
Masturbation, self love, loathsome pass times, sickness, disease, loss.
We are lost, waiting for others to give us discovery.
eternal youth, problem solving minds for the wanton entertainment driven.
I sweat.
I swear to myself over a scalding black coffee.
The heat disperses itself. Sweat wipes down my body.
Whipping myself for my hypocrisy.
Drink driving talk kills me.
Mistakes, gambles, accidents, fear, death and the human plague.
Our polluted minds of good and evil-
The reaction to all sorts of torture.
Everything. To have been born, to wait out the some.
The sum of this whole.
The hole, void of emotion.
Black words, on black background spill forth from our dilated pupils.
No resentment, just wide eyes fascination at a feeling that is our thoughts without words.
Natural and pre-dating shapes, symbols or models for shared understanding.
Lost blackness, runs down my back.
Pools for eyes.
Vision for I.
Unshareable.
Unbearable.
Penny for my thoughts? I dream of death.
Call the boatsman, on his curious flotsam.
This rabble racket, dropping and dripping in my mind.
Do you mind, slowing down, hurrying up.
Paddle as you may, you never learn to swim.
Soon the water erodes, and its not the key to eternal life.
Its not beauty, its not fair or just.
Its just the end.
Something you cannot fend.
It happens, it happened.
She’s gone, nothing’s wrong or wronged.
This trident in this tyrant its pronged-
piercing me.
Us, us three.

The new chapter of my life begins today.
And the weather woman dictates rain. I wave to the familiar people as I leave the studio. I say nothing, a simple gesture. I have no wants, needs or expectations of them, of you. I give my weak, broken smile to you all across the room.
Ready for another humble day, free to do as I please. Active and middling.
Coffee and eggs. An apricot.

Its been a distressing start to the year. With my mother passing away suddenly yet peacefully, i’m assured I can only now after three weeks begin to breathe.
My mind has been dormant, healing.
Fractured. My heart and mind, mimic and mourn what otherwise I feel should have been. Something that was precious, was from me taken. And I wasn’t even there.
I am wracked with guilt and anger. Lost again, and only just now trying my legs at walking towards a path that may bring about healing. To occupy my being.
To rejuvenate and replenish against the trauma, and barren desolation that swept through my life. How fragile. So like jelly. This arrowhead has embedded itself.
I see inside myself and worry about nothing else.
Knowing that ultimately its I that can be the only one to reach in, acknowledging the pain and remove it. Nothing here needs to be pushed through, the procedure is foreign as I wish it always stayed.
I believed myself armoured against all of this. But my casing was soft where I attribute love. I value family, I prize the caring company, my upbringing. The selfless acts that bore my flesh as both blessing and curse into this world.
And I will always hold this inside myself.
The good and the bad. And I will flow like water. Unknown toxicity, a risk to bear for all. To threaten one it to threaten all.
More and more, deeper and deeper the head penetrates.
My own mind rattles. Body weak. Heart pumping at a lost cause.
But my exterior endures. I will hold this, like all other things. For the time being in my hands, slowly my self-embrace, won’t be necessary. My arms by my side, process having passed I’ll be able, wizened to help, advise and guide others. And this I look forward to. To being the cynic and wise man. But now I bleed and seethe.
But my direction is coming clearer now.
The mist parts. The people lose their question-mark heads.
And I will explain and hug freely.
Give love and exclaim.
Direction again at last!
Out of mystery,
Welcome mastery.

The challenge has been and will always be to write my brain.
Write my brain in the here and now. Accurately.

Predating language is sensation and emotional feeling. So when you think to yourself you think in words, but before even that; sometimes your thoughts permeate as feelings only. As tangible as colours, you sense. React and wonder in an inexplainable way.

“Are you right?”
-Yes, but i’d rather be left… alone.

“THE QUANGLE WANGLE’S HAT”

Guy’s name in bottleshop: Malcom.

Claire – Fringe actress.

I experienced an emotional rent today.
An feeling that ran through me.
As my feet beat a path along the rivulet track,
gravel scuffing and sliding and grinding under the tread of my trainers.
I came to the water reservoir by cascade and an opening occurred.
From my memory to my senses. A sudden ghost, dormant was awakened.
Unwanted sensitivity brushed over my nerves and made me frown.
Cringing away from this turbulent internal swirl I ran on with renewed vigor.
My agitation set my brow to more of a furrow as a scowl took over my lips. By chest beat a heavy rhythm and my right lung asked questions of me.

I have thought a lot while running, and forgotten more.
If I could,
If I had the heart i’d run with pen and paper in my hands.
Just to capture the many strands
Ideas of would and should.
Good and bad wonderings and wishes.
Why did mum always do the dishes.
Where are all the well-wishers?

How long will this last.
Why do I wear this mask.
Peace I know, is too much to ask.
Pucker up, remember your task.
Put down your flask.
Summers sun bask.
Tomorrow you can set sail, fly the mast.

One memory per day.
That’s all you have to do.
Before bed.
After work.
Don’t get caught up cooking dinner or anything silly like that.
No time for gravy or roasts.
Food is fuel and there is so much more to life once you’ve nailed the basics.
The dutch way, throw it all in a pot and cook it.
Maybe that’s Indian.
I’m not to know. I should really check out India.
India and New Zealand.
Someboy stole my shoes.
Somebody.
Anybody.
Let me rage, my knee a hinderance? I wonder.
YOGA. Every day. A retreat, that would be nice wouldn’t it.
Some day, some time, just to relax, get in touch with my internal self.
Flex my mind, stretch my body. Sweat and move and think and flex and move and stretch and meet people and share myself. And smile, even if behind that smile is a cracked visage. A broken plate, a fractured windscreen. A decree dropped in a blender. A writ for my own arrest. A warrant for my own poison. A smile that’s fettered with the memory of loss. My rancor, hidden in the bog of my mind. Submerged. Boiling with want, lusting to be let loose on earth. Saved for a rainy day. When the bog swells and the unnatural groans can spread wildly from its ordinarily quiet shores.
And the maw, clean and dark. Teeth brushed, shining bright. Emanating like some sick nuclear disaster. Pulsing, perfect glinting whiteness. Gilded with stress lines. Strong and hypnotizing. Fascinating, reptilian fang. Sharp and frozen. Undesirable wants. Conflicted. Self-satisfied suffering.
Breathing heavily.
Thumbs up to another jogger, smiling in every way but my eyes.
They are the pits of elsewhere. A gargantuan, otherworldly mention.
Flies do not fly.
Apples do not fall.
Canines tails drop to the floor.
And my eye look out among.
Eyebrows quiver.
Like minded, my gaze like arrows pierce my surroundings.
Look. Look obtuse. Pointed, angry.
If a flame could leap from a gaze, then the thatch of the world would burn.
Mirrors show no cool reflection. I must divert or feel myself stirred to an unwanted fire. Cinder and snow, showing past the toothy grin spreading from gums and lips.
So false, blood could erupt from my every pore.
Gasoline smell, a clicking of teeth, the sparking of a match.
My frail structure of triangles, no bridge could hold the weight on my shoulders, no provide a girder over this void in space.
A maw that opens up and takes all.
Nothing is chewed, there is only peace and darkness.
My eyes, satellited that beam nothingness into reality.
My open mouth, sobbing, gasping breaths would devour all if it weren’t for my teeth.
My bright-white teeth. Stronger than bone or gaolers arms.
Imprisoning the darkness withing. Smiling wide, undented bars;
Holding behind them, the depths of all that I hold dear.
My sacred suffering, my hangups that eat away and torture me.
Wracked and seething, flooding my eyes.
The lids would boil if not for my tears.
Hot streaks of the salted oceans. Infinite shards of rock and broken glass.
A crayon within me breaks each day as the spectrum of my colourful nature shudders and bakes in the foil of my being.
I will never be stuffed. I am not an apple.
There is no sugar, no syrup of life.
Where once I was a grape, to have escaped being peeled, only to have dried up in the heat of my own angers. My mirror gaze, the loss of tears, dried up.
Resembling rat shit, I am a raisin.
Foiled by my own thinkings. My eighty percent, evaporated.
Yes, my father would be proud.
To have lived to see all of my friends die.
To have succummed to drag.
Whence once was fabulous, now all is unreal and I am something that I am not.
Cordial sweet, but waterless.
Bastard is my base, and memories fade.
Close my eyes to bring about the death of the day.
We all deal with this tragedy, grief in our own way.
“Its OK” “It happens”.

I haven’t sat and thought.
I never stopped and wondered.
Each new year I sit, I dread.
I think and dream.
Remember.
I look for solid words to put with my year.
Music thumps towards my ears and I-
I remember.
It saddens me. Make me cry.
Reflections morose, stoic and melancholy.
I think of my choices, and wonder why.
And realize it was mostly folly.

This year was different.
Shivering and fearful.
Spending time with my sister;
Beyond what I had planned.
Afraid and jittery, tears rolling.
Her head lolling.
My arms in a cross over her prone and vomiting figure.
As she rocked and rolled, crying and confused her way into twentyseventeen.
I shook with fury. Teeth gritting and pain surging through my temples and out of my eyes. Out, out, out into the world.
And so I do not make contact with people, I look away-
I stare off into the middle space, seeking a healthy distance.
Despondent and peaceful to the outward observer.
Beneath I seethe.
I hide deep inside myself.
I am strong for others until my time comes to crack.
A full unveiling. A violent fury, that engulfs any material that comes into contact.
I will be wreckful.
There will be havoc and danger.
A whirl of the wind will die away in my presence.
Cool and grim.
Heavy like gold, stubborn as mucus.

And this time of year, the energy of others.
What are you doing.
And i’m so scattered.
My wish is to be alone.
I need to hide, such a strong network of people. Demanding entertainment.
Ideas and missions of all kinds.
Its horrible, heinous.
I am divided.
Scattered to stupidity.
And my wants fragment.
My hypocritic, monkey brain. Fractures of binary.
I say yes when I should say no.
I say yes when I have made other plans.
I say yes to challenge myself.
I say yes to make myself busy.
To make things difficult.
To double book.
To experience ritual death-
Free time, apologize, offer up nice thoughts.
Consolidate. Mourn. Time’s passing and I-
I just wait and waffle and feel the need to move.
Move yet frozen in a haze of lazy nothingness.
A perfect cube of ice with me inside.
Numb and unreflecting. Pushed from the summit of some great mountain.
Past the tower, where men and women cry out.
Every jealous language under the son rattles around the valley.
It resonates as a hum, like furious bees attacking paper thin walls.
Babes cry out, and their language of discovery, fear, hunger and exhaustion reek of the basic human connections. Signifying nothing but the reduction of our race as it continuously reforms and resets.
Good ideas and frail wants grow with language and baby steps of the many skinned locust. Rubbing together, itching legs in the muds of eternity.
But time will tell through a gentle breeze;
Easing itself gently between you and you loved ones.
This change, ongoing, spinning beyond your control.
Farther out-there than your perspective.
And the sickness that sets in with this knowledge.
The skeptisism, and vomiting when you spin as your surroundings.
When you are full.
The fuel of your own downfall.
And you pass it on, like the disgusting downtrodden dollar bill of the Americas.
You pass it on though its valued just the same.
The overall worth changes.
Ripples of greeds, of wants.
Flux. Unfixable until death did us part.
Timeliness, and flowers.
Cheap hacks of significance.
Functioning to remedy and show the fickle nature of life.
The expenses of each breath-
of comfort. The grains of wood scratch and spliter you.
Eternity has not worn this table top down.
No number of elephants scratching themselves of a tingle could rub smooth this surface.
Like the pills mother used to leave by the bench.
Unswallowable. Iron, zinc, vitamins and rainbows of nonsense.
Placebo, and the matter of ones mind.
The aging of one’s skin.
The forgetfulness of our mind.
The anger of your jawline.
The jowls of comfort.
The absent minded chomping down.
The snort and snore.
Slurping and gulping and hiding and crying.
So fragile, so resplendent in a few days of exercise.
A lifestyle, hard fought. Tanned and toned and that I envy.

You pretended to yourself that you organised things.
You hurt me beyond the grave.
You hid from the photography.
In solitude you escaped so many things.
In this sacred hermitude you reveled and revealed your artistic function.
Playing a role, eating and sleeping unrestful and ill.
But a void you did fill,
occupy with safety and love.
So much of that, which my heart would not have otherwise.
The late nights, static charging over my eyes.
Black and white with exhaustion.
Colour burnt from my retina.
Recognition and definition mingling.
Strange feelings of cold and cloud.
A mist of grey, that voidless space. Filled with nothing.
Not asking anything of emotional toil or reaction.
Just flat. Flabbergasted grey.
Not hot. A mystery of negative space.
Reviled by boatsmen.
Hearders and flock.
And we, all of us experience it.
Our bones, refrigerated. Once clean-
one defined cut.
A bleep, somewhere out there.
No true north.
Magnets eat away at our hearts.
Lungs lost to pneumonia.
Fear bespoke. Untimely, lifesupport and a haze of hateful memories.
Abortion and life.
The thin red line for everyone to read into and acknowledge.
Go out there with an energy and zest.
Or be like my english father says:
The English grew cunty.
Separated, exasperated, depressed and un-loving.
And our material worth grows.
From day one.
The ham wallet of our parental, familial bond.
The blue eyes and blonde hair of my childhood.
The snippets, cutout and scrapbooks.
They disintergrate, parting in shreds.
A heart. Red, pulsing, made out of glass.
Dropped!
And its as if in a film,
slow motion, shattering.
the whirl of the celestial being.
The nod of the planets.
And catastrophic arm of gravity.
Catapulting god and misunderstanding into our stagnant, forgetful pond.
We question the fiber of each shard.
The breakoffs,
tangents of lost times and ideas.
Our influence fades with the grip of our ageing hands.
Fettered, flaking skin.
Pockered cheeks.
Sunken eyes.
Breath of vinegar and mustard.
Salt crusted lips.
Lathered calved, knees of gold prepare us for one final jump.
Jump on plunge.
We may at any time suffocate;
drowning as I did this night gone.
We stood above the crowd.
I thought to spit.
A young woman smuggled into the auditorium upstairs,
to celebrate a birthday.
To drink under age! Such a rush I felt in this dreamstate.
Cheese dreams perhaps -dairy digestion-
But I felt attractions.
Two women.
One with amber hair. Bejeweled.
Glass of riches. My eyes screwed deep into the substance of their reality.
Impenetrable, perfection. Height of riches.
Emerald could have been here name as she wore, almost black sapphires that glittered under the chandelier.
My heart raced for her desires.
I envied those that would court her.
Then to my alarm, I awoke and sprung from bed.
As waking at a time specified is a regime that cannot be hindered or helped.
I am here.
The day has begun.
I have done it all wrong.
I fear and fear and fear-
Staying strong for others until my time comes.

That’d be my memory there.
Spread out as a mist in the breeze.
And in the murk other people waft and circle.
That’s what I recognize, and used to see anyway.

Who would have thought. All the material construction that brought about the end of the world, us as super predator could first save a life.
Its the clinging nature of our greed, my lazy and forgetful nature.
How could I forget. I often ask the people that matter most to me if they’ve ever written a message in a bottle. And the answers vary.
I stick to the message. It can sicken them, polluting their minds like the bottle that floats shamelessly through the ocean currents.
Thermohaline “motherliness”, my veins. Ripple and pulse as your spirit erodes.
As I rode home after an enormous day of exertion I contributed waste.
I felt unseemly. Sick and tired, raw and pained.
A half finished bottle of water, so much more to give. I’d run six kilmeters, mostly down hill. Sponsored by Hartz. I’d then been fighting, shadow boxing, kicking with absolute focus. Doing something, keeping busy. Moving, giving back as much energy I had borrowed from the universe.
I pulsed, I ached. My eyes squinted against the midday sun and I wondered at the lateness of the day.
There was a bump as I went over a pot-hold in the road. I was lucky to avoid a snakebite in my tire for its lack of suspension and the surprise that took me.
There was a small thud, my bottle, my Hartz, half filled dropped to the gutter.
It was a hot day, I was in the awkward position of meeting head on traffic with no time to turn.
I left the bottle, and crossed to safely thinking of the currents, pollution and the half hartz that had escaped me. And unfinished journey.
That night I dreamt of the being alone, and I thought nothing of it as I recorded it in my diary the very next morning.
And I didn’t think.
It was all going to be connected by the currents.
And the layers.
And all the wings.
Touching all the far shores.
And no matter where I journeyed that which separated me from what I knew to be true, was far less than what connected us and made us all the same without homogenizing.

A hear passed, I was present more that I had been in years. I gave so much freely.
There was danger in the alley ways and I’d taken the advice of my father to only call one person friend and she was elsewhere with her husband. Wisely choose, always wear sunscreen. Follow the summer. Meditate when you feel. What it means to be alive, meaningful(ness) is different to everyone. If you wish to deconstruct, so be it. If you wish to complicate and enshroud yourself in meaning that you and everyone else must unravel your failure is a shroud that you will wear as a coat for winter, a veil for weddings and cask for funerals. And the words of thanks, and all that people think will be mist.
The sun will rise, the stars will wobble and Africa can continue its movement north-east towards the european tectonics. And this is where I was to recognize something special. Irrefutable, repeatable and strange.

I was there, stranded of the east coast, stranded on a deserted beach of Zanzibar, dreaming of elephants in ballet slippers and giraffes flying around in handgliders when the most strange thing was to happen and it was witnessed by all the dead, so i’ll let them tell it.

He was there, I recognize that now: my son was sitting there. He did a sand angel. Angel that he was, was what he needed also. Because he was stranded. Clinging to a hatbox from the 70’s. Circular and lines with purple satin. By Jove he was lucky to have not packed heavy books, and it remained airtight. This was after my death, but before the collapse of it all. He was travelling, running I presume – like always.
As far back as I can recall in his teenage years he ran.
Such a wonderfully angry young man. He wore a rose in his lapel and used the horned stalks of the rose as cufflinks. The barbs of his lifetime are what held him together. Prickly reminders from time to time that milked and let blood-let.
He wore a hat, no crown of briars or leaves. Simple and dark, more a cap that reviled him from the posturing minds and eyes of other simpletons. He covered his wavy hair and shaded his nose, sometimes using such a thing as a fan. He was modest, he was laying, dreaming and I floated about him like the cool breeze of the Indian ocean. Where the currents would intermingle. Gales would storm, blowing and raging as abrupt as a sneeze brought on from looking at the sun. Palm trees would bend to breaking point, and the currents would circle. redoubling, back upon themselves, crossing and shifting. Melting, mingling and saturating.
The coast was warm, but the channels and currents ran deep and powerful as arteries that course through the pumping legs of a sprinter.
Great arteries in action, the cadence that smashes into indonesian coasts, ice cold bolts from a malign and mindlessly spinning sphere; scattering islands in a road of waves. To surface, feel the damage and warm. Stagnate and flow back towards Zanzibar, which is where he lay. In my etherous mind -even now he lay.

And in his smiling daydream, a wave washed ashore a bottle. His heart lifted as something clunked against his heel. Refreshing water, and something more than a memory. Hope poked a thump. Nuzzling a bobbling question.
His eyes oped a sliver, to glisten silver in the Zanzibar sun. Tanzania across an impassible channel, where hot sand glowed white hot and water baked and washed itself in waves to keep warm.
The bottle presented itself. And the circus of his mind gathered itself. Blinking twice and sneezing he sat up and rubbed his sore shin. Looking at the bottle he wondered.
Picking it up, he wondered. A precious tear, a Tasmanian pearl, so far from home blinked to his peter pan fashioned trousers. His feet were baked prunes and his hair a mass of curls that threatedned to grown around the meger looking cap.
A sigh escaped his slightly parted lips, revealing teeth that suited his big mouth and straighly lined lips. He shook himself gently.
Did he pray? I don’t think so, as I remember him, I don’t think he prayed.
He rubbed his hands, and touched the bottle to his chin in thought, thoughts of animals forgotten. It would have been normal for him to begin sobbing.
It would have been so normal.
So normal.

Warmest, sincerest, kindest regards.
Returning home to the many things.
All of my little bugs.
Accompanies by the thoughts of Kafka’s big ones.
I read, I write, I wait and I run.
I cant believe my mother is gone.
It seems unreal.
I have dormant feelings.
Lost, fractured pieces of myself have died and await burial.
My memories scattered.
Ashen faced. Distant.
My otherness, removed, afraid and angry.
To have left a great many friends in Canada. To decide to not return, to turn my back on the cold weather that would have so-suited my icy temperament.
I see my brother and sister.
Red faces, larger than life in their emotions.
I can see them stored, suffering sadness.
My exhaustion is three fold.
My tiredness is manifold, as I resort to my recovery manifesto.
And my knee aches as my heart does.
With scars for memory.
Muted, silver grey. And I fear i’ll lose my lunch at the viewing.
It will hit. Hit home.
And I will be full of dread. Full.
Sick with it. Confronted, and torn down.
Wrecked in the storm of conflicting seas.
Where my hot blood of anger rises against my cold removal.
The forgotten tsunami, seen in the tumult that passes beneath unseen.
Waves and a frigid breeze that have clashed within me -everternal.
In this life for me, this occupational flux, where I once stood, now stands a building. Where I was on the ground at gravity’s zero.
Now resides a thing of man-made rock. Not timeless, not indestructible.
Time will turn that stone to sand.
Rubble and ruin, flakes and ashes.
All for the downstream; where I question the nature of the infinity of rocks.
Sand becomes it all where we break down-
Bust and leak, swell and groan.
Our last breaths, before we are washed away.
In a storm, a hell-kite’s memory,
Wind whipped tears.
And you pass on, despite your years.
Too soon, and sick. Afraid and broken.
Memory gone, your own that is.
I tried, I tried I tried.
But I wasn’t there.
And now I feel the turn of my stomach,
The ache of my bones. The swell of my eyes, my heart.
The blister of my lips. The jelly that resides under the lids-
cries in goodbyes as we wade through a forbade farewell.
Something we never gave up hope on, and we resolve as the circle of life.
But your own spiral is the tragedy.
We have named this circular motion of life.
And in the bigger picture we have called it zero.
This resonates oft with me these days.
It brings about a resigned and resolute sigh.
A significant vein has been tapped.
Dripping all it ever once stored.
Its ok to cry.
“Don’t listen to what they say about men crying”.
What a strange woman. What a dastardly character.
The moles on the face. The crop top.
Long lunches, lashes and lost or half formed ideas.
*awwww gawd* I say suffering my circumstance, speaking while sucking in air.
and my airs, like my hairs split.
Choosing to suffer.
Always