Wednesday, March 28, 2007
That tunnel opened and yesterday I took it and thought of you and our little subterranean adventure with all the sepia hues that memory can afford. And I have to admit that it saddened me and blanched my skin, as it slipped under all that make believe light: after all that time, so many lights and years, we became just rock and dirt, a memory for the keeping. And then the Gore Hill loomed and the sun, so low and near its end, shone lightly on my face, chipping at the rue. And I believed, or listened, to that little voice, resonating through all that blood and bone, it has travelled me so, little little scars, and it spoke of the past, much like the tunnel, fixed and unfixable, and of the uncertainty of the lay, the unexpected, the closeness of new intimacy. That thing, delivered by old sun, delicious and engaging, slate and past, is no tunnel, is no linear fold. No. It is exemption, the get out of jail free, not judge nor jury; but a glimpse of all that may or may not become. It is choice and consequence and love. It is air, free to breathe and trackless.
Yesterday I did not take the quick way home, through the harbour tunnel and yet more perpetual sameness, I chose the airy path and wallowed in all the curiosity of that beautiful landlocked bridge, and the view it so reluctantly yields; and I felt I connected, for just a breath or two, with the millions and millions of stories, much like this one, my very own, the weight of the city and all the lumbering hearts, so effortlessly borne.
[you but may I be do hard get to you. read,]
Sunday, March 25, 2007
It's cold, wet and rather blowy outside,
All our clocks must go back one in two,
And just then, not more than a moment ago,
I really fancied a cuddle.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
(oh, and me thankyou for
bailing me at
the petrol station this morning, what would me do
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Friday, late: You kissed me quickly on the cheek as you left me, a casual peck - nothing more, unexpected and full of life, but your haste glimpsed me a view of your mindset, a terrain I recognise with some intimacy: an over mused intention then spilling the flimsy wall of inhibition; a reaction, no more words to spend here. You were gone. And though we had tattled for just one hour, three times in which you asked me of where I live; I thought you were nice and I wish now that I had told you so when I had the steam, the roll of the liquored tongue, for life is far too short to spend draped across what should have been.
Yet I let you go – my voice hushed and still the weight and the churning. And I need to learn, I need to let go still more, to move on, I really do; but it is a thankless struggle. Marked so very distinctly, so predictably, by the trappings of cutesy inhibition, of secrets and the ensuing deceit, of the glitch and its grating teeth, and of course these little electronic sighs, the wispy articulations of an almost perfect martini: vodka, a little vermouth and a splash of deepest regret.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
A pin-up story, something lost, something cherished and yet lost, and then, years later in the most unlooked-for moment imaginable: found, chanced amidst the nettles, the fall of something unrelated yet, to a point, connected, found and then held close, something beautiful, something meaningful in all its apparent meaninglessness, something in recent honesty that listens perhaps just to us, it is unhinged, it has life, is life, is real, now; and though I may have wished, I didn't, for a flyspeck second, believe that what has become, what this is, what is now, could ever, in my deepest well, have been.
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Fiction plucks from within us our deepest fears and hopes then shows them to us in rough disguise: the monster and the rocket.
When you understand that what you're telling is just a story. It isn't happening anymore. When you realise the story you're telling is just words, when you can just crumble it up and throw your past in the trashcan, then we'll figure out who you're going to be.
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