Topsy as the roller coaster cresting Lunar Park Turvy as the combers that rolled by in the dark
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When I write.
I am exalted— Venus, in her house of joy.
Ghost Train.
We march from the station noisy in our smart winter boots tromping up the ramp and spilling into the streets. I peel off early blossom-way walking and somehow the evening is the blue of early morning and its stretching scattered clouds are lit-up from below by the sun quickly dying. (Or does it rise again?) The air inside the gate is thick and laced with scent sweet and sharp and heady. It's the jonquils pushing up rising with the late-day morning sun.
Look.
Where as a child I dreamt I dug beneath the surface of the soil in the banks of salt-torn plantings beneath the kiosk selling tackle and ice-cream a trove of gold two-dollar coins five Buffalo Bills' worth (or more) a fortune in my fist found here beneath the scrubby undergrowth.
Another Train.
How is it that in this yet other house far from the old train lines wheels on track still echo through the windows and rumble through my mind?
Hypnot.
On The Beach
and the last two valium.
Time to get some sleep.
Listening Meditation.
Birds overhead and the rain sweeping violently over the roof in sprays snatched by the winds and torn away then lashed on the rooftops again. Birds fly over giggling and calling as they pass. The cat doesn’t like it. Meows a startled birdish chirrup and jogs over to me. In the left ear gas burning in muted and droning roar. To the right the rain dashed on the window glass spittered closer than the swirling roar inside the walls beneath the ceiling. Birds call overhead again these screeching and squarked calls bickering as they go. Now footsteps in another house’s hallway (though there’s nobody home) thumping they vibrate through the floorboards and rumble in the floors. No voices only the birds calling and bickering and giggling as they go.
Rubber Soul (We Didn’t Mean to go to Sea).
Plastic soul, man, plastic soul.
The malleability, extendability of the mind.
You can quieten it, and calm it, and dive within it and step outside it. Whatever you want to do. Don’t try too hard.
Let it come to you.
What did he say? A spot of sunlight in your chest, spreading through your body. Something; you weren’t listening.
Let it come to you.
Breathe in — through the nose. And out — through the mouth — slowly, lips pursed to slow it down, slowly, all the way out. In and out, slowly, all the way out.
And on the next out-breath, close your eyes. Gently.
Slowly, gently.
Return the breath to its rhythm.
Take note of the body. The underlying feeling? — that tightness in your chest, the tension in your stomach-muscles, that fiery spot of pain in your spine, the one in your pelvis, the strain in your shoulders. The way your jaw is held stiff, teeth apart, and all the muscles in your cheeks are tightened, gripping the lips shut.
The breath upon the upper lip. A silver thread of smoke. In, and out, slowly, all the way out.
In, and out, slowly, all the way out.
The breath on the upper lip. Count the breaths. One, and — up — two, and — down. Three, and — up — four, and — down. Up to ten, start again.
And another train passes outside.
Whispers. The city breathes.
Thinking — note it.
Feeling — note it.
Feel the breath passing on the upper lip. One, and — in — two, and — out. Three, and — in — four, and — out.
All the way out, out, out, out to sea.
We didn’t mean to go to sea.
Adrift. The current flowing in and out, the breath on your upper lip, the silver thread of smoke. At sea.
London. The Warmest April Day Since 1949.
Blossom and birdsong in The Regent’s Park.
Meadow-like lawns scattered with white daisies.
French women chatter over yoga on the playing fields.
A spaniel barks, demands his mother’s attention.
Edgeware Road to Park Lane. Skirting the edges of Hyde Park sparkling bright green in the sun, blue-and-white-striped deckchairs unfolded everywhere.
Into Mayfair. Colours of the brickwork, shades of dusky pink, white, grey charcoal blue.
Spotted Berkeley Square, and suddenly Piccadilly and the Burlington Arcade sparkling with diamonds.
Regent Street, the Circus.
St James Square thronging at lunchtime. Another pair of men in blue suit-pants, white shirts, take-away lunch in hand, ‘seems everyone’s had this idea.’ The entirety of smart London offices spilled into the square burbling with chatter. Beds of vibrant bulbs. From behind me, the popping of a champagne cork.
You Silly Girl.
Head. Up.
He motioned with his hands under his chin.
I smiled sheepishly.
I was just admiring my shoes, I said.
He said, they are cool shoes.
Magical: Day One 