So Play It Back In Reverse.

("..Like that good hole album, I can live through this, I have lived through worse...so play it back ...mmmhmmhmhm..yeah? You know the song?)

Recently I've hit a block. A giant concrete, rough to the touch, sitting in my front yard white-trashing up the whole neighbourhood block.

It's grey and ugly dreary, and stealing all of my words.

Nasty sneaky thing.

It's a damper on my spirits, creative failure, writers block- whichever way I decide to spin it.

Underneath the words; the labels, the explanations and elaborations, the scrawling black disguises, it is one thing.

One thing only, and complex enough in it's singularity.

A denial. Of my voice, myself, my existence.

I have knit up so much of my identity into words.

I think predominately through words, visual scripts, lettered pages, loud speaker system wired through my brain that crackles and hums and whispers.

I show myself through words, I choose to speak or not speak, and always, always I write.

I can spill hopes, dreams, many fears, a million associative memories (apparent to myself alone), into the space of a few lines.

Seal with ink, sign with half a name, lock away in the back of a drawer or launch into cyberspace.

In this way I live on, leading an inarguable existence.

I hold the proof, don't believe me? I can produce official papers.

I have been denying myself the ability to write. Because at the moment I am leading a reluctant existence.

In the same way, I have been unable to clean my room.

It's been three weeks. And the suitcase still sits there, in the centre of my floor. It's contents spilling over into a drawer, overturned in the midst of last minute frenzied packing.

I stumble over it every time I leave my room.

But to clean the space, would be to acknowledge my presence within it.

I no longer want to eat, or cook, or visit the grocery store. My favourite meals were with you, sitting in the middle of your lounge room floor, greasy fingers, and the television's blaring mingling with the incessant noise of children.

And I won't sleep.

Shaped around your back, I could hear your heartbeat.

Smell your skin.

Your hair, my cheek.

This bed is built for one, and I'm alone again.

But, in a few weeks, it will be one month.

One month before I leave again, travel back in time, to where I was before.

I was better there.

For the meantime, I'm unwell, and without you.

And the morning light slips under the blinds, cuts like knives.

Soft scars underneath closed lids.

But, enough with the musery. On with the bloggery!

Oh my, I just used an exclamation mark...so you know I'm serious, I'm emerging from this rut fo' real.

(also I want to change the name of my blog, it IRKS me every time I see it. And have you ever been irked? It's not at all comfortable and it itches. Oh great and glorious Internet, send me some inspiration, a sign, anything...rename my blog)

We Are Born To Love, And Wonder At The Stars.

Daddy, can you hear me up there? I'm never sure.

Daddy, I have something to tell you, but you know already.

Daddy, I am scared by this.

Daddy, I am crying, just a little bit. But I cry every time I talk to you, and damn it where are my tissues.

Daddy, life is confusing and overwhelming, and how dare you leave me to do this on my own?

I'm sorry Daddy, I'm emotional at the moment.

I laugh, and then I cry, and then I love a little bit.

But there's a light space in my chest. In that spot. The one that used to be full of grey, and made smiling difficult.

I smile more now Daddy. But you knew that too.

I wish she'd understand. But I don't think she can.

I know you loved her for a reason, and the reasons still shine through. From time to time.

But she lost herself a bit, when she lost you.

Daddy, someday soon I am going to break my mother's heart. A little more.

And you're not here to fix it.

Daddy, I dreamed last night that I was in a bathtub. I sank to the bottom, and looked up through the water at the stars.

Oh and Daddy, I'm getting a kitten. His name is Norman. He looks like marmalade.

I have a feeling you were a cat person.

A Formerly Paper Post, Once Lost, Now Found.

I want to run away, to Australia;

to Quebec;

to a small bookshop nestled in the Left Bank.

Sleep huddled in a corner, surrounded by dusty words.
Walk along cobbled streets while the dusk mingles with smoke.
Or run in the opposite direction.

Away from everything I have built my life upon. Hung my mind around. Like so many sticks, draped over with a many-holed canvas.
To somewhere heavily populated, where no one knows my name, or sees my face.
Or somewhere remote.

Run to Nowhere.
Where the words I know, have never existed.

To sit with people, while they make sounds, and I make sounds and that's all they are.

Sounds.

And then maybe I could do it.

Say "Hey! Listen, I'm not okay"

or

"So many mornings I wake, and lie here. And there's nothing to get up for, so I turn and will myself back to sleep. Until noon. Until dark. Until the next morning rolls around. But, I never make it that far. So I sit alone in the night."

"Some days I convince myself that life is good. But other days I know that society is flawed. And people are flawed and I am flawed. And we're all going to let each other down in the end"

And they would maybe laugh and nod, and talk to each other.
"Her hair is a strange colour"
"Listen to the sounds she makes.."
"Poor child, she is all wrong. But it cannot be helped"
And their words would tumble around me, violently. Like water through a storm drain, like falling wooden blocks.
Shattering noise, the trees in the forest.
And then, they would teach me to make sago.

I like the Left Bank idea best. If Mouse will come with me?
Something to prevent me from falling into a life of paper dreams, and words that stop at my throat. Hands that do not move, except to brush away the flies.

A Not Very Full Of Birthday Post.

I've received several gifts today.

From everywhere, and nowhere, and the sky.

A midnight happy birthday, as the night slid through my open window.

This song. And this.

And this,

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

T.S.Eliot,

The Wasteland; III The Fire Sermon

(And the earnest man who stood at the front of the room, and said "I'm not going to try and explain it. People...they dedicate their lives to this.")

Rain that fell lightly, caressing my face, with the lightest of touches. Misting against my eyelashes. Then heavier. Drenching, burrowing through my clothes to lie against my skin. The most affectionate and attentive of rainfalls.

I Missed You Yesterday, And I Miss You Today.

I'm reading this and thinking thoughts, at the end of each line.
For you. Saving them, to say later.
I wish that you were here, or I was there.
I still don't like Pink Floyd.
That's all.

A Series Of Ghost Letters, The First.

It was never sent.
Never written.
I simply sat, pen in hand. Blue plastic against the soft, alien and out of place.
(I am alien, out of place)
I sat, stiller than still.
Immobile, unchanging. (Do you see? This is what constancy looks like)
I have not moved. It is not hard, dear. Not hard at all.

A blank page. Not blank, lined. But unworded.

I had no words left.
I thought. I could roll it into a cone, perhaps. Hold it to the speaker, let the music speak for me.
The speaker.
Seal it, send it.
Let you know. That you were lost in your little life.
They have always known better than me. But I knew better than you.

Crumpled, blue lined paper. Momentarily stained with a blue plastic pen.

The bluest of Tuesdays.
I may have cried a little.

But only a little. I have cried more for others.

Letter the first,
in the right hand corner,
second window from the bed.

If you close your eyes, it looks like this

and it sounds like the sky, on a cloudy day.

Odds and Ends.

Here are the Odds.

I have to get sleeping pills from my doctor.

So says my mother. She says a lot of things. And I say everything and nothing in return.

I don't like the idea of not being able to wake up.

And I don't like small white things, that sit so menacing inside palms.

I have decided recently, that I believe in magnetic forces, sea tides, and the moon. I should really update my facebook "religious views" status.

Tangible is such wonderful word. And it always makes me think of citrus fruits. Even better.

Of fingernails pressing gently into pitted rind, bringing forth a soft spray. Leaving half moon trails.

I think that I would like to be somewhere else

...waiting for somewhere else to arrive.

It isn't working so far. I also think that I would like to try gardening, in the right moonlight.

My windows are very rattly,

Tomorrow I will stop up the gaps, with ghosts of love letters, the ones that were written but never sent.

Poor dears, they should be used for something.

This is the End. I know I said "Ends", but there is only one.

Two now. Good.

This is the real End.