We sat underneath the scant young eucalypts
the dry mowed bull-grass itching on my bare knee-backs.
Category: Bits and Pieces
Apostles.
John
Paul
Ringo
& George.
Filling Time.
Moments musical
moments magical
moments of lost joy
moments of lost time
moments found
and moments lost again
moments of transcendence
moments without trace
elevated moments
buoyed
momentarily free, and floating
moments dropped
moments left behind
in pockets
dipped-in, and found again
moments drifting, elongating
moments dragging, under-taking
moments tinkling and a-glow
moments of darkness
moments drowned
moments harsh, that cut
moments soft, that lull
louder moments, fraught and frantic
moments calling
and the ones that pull away
moments growing in the deep
moments ending
moments rounded-out, replete.
Go.
I told you
time is what it needed
why’d you give it space as well?
Appropriate.
‘Yes, and there’s something a little Chinese about it.’
‘Yes!’
‘It says, “I’m culturally…”’
‘Exactly what I thought.’
Acceptance.
Waterdrops would waddle down the hillside every morning, following the path laid down by his ancestors in many years gone by. Each day, he descended—drawn by habit, by the patterns sewn into his life, with no qualms, no questions to be pondered—and each evening, he returned. It did not occur to Waterdrops to consider the question that occurs to you and I—why?—and so, daily, he wandered up and down the hill, was warmed beneath the sun, and gently, surely, with no hopes nor fears to fill, lived out his quiet life.
Search.
Where we find meaning, it’s deep within ourselves. Not out there—not on the internet. Not in the images of others, other lives, not in the lies—we eat them up, rapacious, with our eyes, until they eat our hearts. We swallow bites of presentation, of fabrication, and digest. We perceive, to occupy our minds. But beneath perception lies the truth inside—unoccupied, we find it in our dreams. The truth is there in music, played on heart-strings, composed upon our skins. The truth is there in tears brought forth by melodies divine, by poetry, by the pangs of night’s desire. These are the essences of meaning that lie beneath our love. Truth is not in shallowness and shortness, short attention spans, short thought. Not in the photos flashing on our phones, swiped and swept aside. The truth is there in notes and notions that run up and down our spines, shiver there, linger there, and infiltrate our souls. I cannot tell you what is truth—but I tell you, it is there.
Words (2).
And remember—this is what matters. Words. What matters is not their matter but that they matter still. Still, quiet perfection in words. Balance, and structure, not straight-laced, but lucid and dreaming all at once.
Of Monkeys and Men.
She smiled on one side of her face, and flashed pity with the other. “I know. But the thing is—the other monkeys don’t give a shit. They have their own shit to worry about. Maybe literally. They’re monkeys. I know it’s infuriating that they don’t care but they don’t and, honey, they’re too stupid to care. They’re monkeys. Why eat your heart out over something you can’t change? Evolution is a slow-moving thing. To make these monkeys men would take a hell of a lot mothering. Is that going to be your purpose? God! Why bother? Just watch them swing from branch to branch—it’s a day out at the zoo—and get out of the way when the shit-flinging starts.”
Awake.
and in the darkness
in the most-slept moments
the deepest rumbles pass
Magical: Day One 