terrastratus

the simplicty of form belies the complexity of form.

hands smoothed round corners. soft as rainwater. a gentle pattering. awaking and falling asleep.

these dry desert days with wind sweeping like fingers through sand and hair and highways to other places.

all that we let go of returns to us.

slowly slowly gently gently

a slow slide into seven day cycles.

half asleep under neon lights. some part of me still circling the earth with the golden orb on the horizon.

how we fall into these simple routines. attend to basic needs with acute attention. whittling through the early hours. cut back till true forms revealed. ever shifting into new shapes.

murmer

it is a small melee but audible. The rustling of rooftops and the hustling of trees. Cards dealt and held close. My hands flush and face down. Unsure of what i'm throwing away. In the abscence of outlines i float. Ever transient i mimic the clouds. Hammers and nails terrify me. I still can't define what i feel.

could it be the weather?

alone with the rythmic measuring of time.

time is elastic. endless contortions. yet to find an even pounding.one foot in front of the other. we waltz like this. hand to mouth to fist.

i am alone with my lists. with my electronic arms. spindles of connections through wires and machines. my sister sings technocratic lullabies while i try to find my way through the absurd into meaning again.

weary i weave through identities. finding facades in my wardrobe each morn. i am fifteen new ideas and a caseful of memories.

i do not know what i will find on my way home.

of many things

we find elation in isolated corners. in pockets of time sewn into secret compartments.

i return to the world with a small gush. amplify the stillness. let silence beat imperceptibly in the background. a constant hum of distant dreaming.

my nocturnal landscapes loom large in the morning. i catch extra snippets before emerging from shadows. the ground littered with last weeks and yesteryears. yet to processed. and packaged. and shipped.

and my heart?

who knows what it whispers when left to it's own devices. it reinvents itself daily. sometimes taunting. sometimes gently coaxing.

i am still learning my mother tongue

altocumulus

every moment is a point of departure. even some birds can fly at night.

i am content to patrol the vacumn; awaiting the whooshing sound of the Next Big Thing, the small trickle of Something Different, the hammering of What Must Change. i am summoning a Perfect Noun. something to strive towards.

and yet this gentle ambiguity. this language of grey scale. this weightlessness. these paddocks without fences and nights without counting of sheep.

could there ever be a word big enough to encapsulate all of my dreams?

i know less of myself but more deeply. these days i covet small mementos and seeds. ambition seems cumbersome. time plays origami; folding into a migrating bird.

every moment is a point of departure.
we are in transit almost
all all of the time.

briefly

mystery must be different to ignorance. My unknowing is somehow as comforting as it is confronting. One evening at the sink the realisation that everything has shifted in ways yet to be defined is at once unsettling and uplifting.

terra firma

sometimes the only way to make peace with ourselves is to link action to our thoughts.

buried truths and forgotten things, layered pitchfork metamorphes. terra nova incognito. from paitence comes great rewards.

the fruit of our labours begins as a seed. a small explosion willed to grow. all i know about time can be captured in this series of simple events.

and this we share beneath overcast days; our brightness burnt too fast. a reminder of what is meaningful beyond the limits of our own skins. the trickling of what always has been will be. the flood of what has past.

with clay caked hands we build something that is bigger than ourselves. and in disassociation there is healing; at once both intimate and removed.

end point

we have almost reached the end point.

saddles set and girdles tightened. trudging through grey sky desert days. in absence of lightening, static sparks electricity. my nights are long, not lonesome.

if i could draw for you all the mundane revelations that have whittled into my skin over the last week, the sand would be scribbled with the spinning top that morphs into a revolution.

but this is a quiet revolt.

that which has shifted has found a new place. tetris settles back into alignment. not all revelations come cheaply but they make it easier in the end.

dizzy heights?

In speaking our mind do we honour our truth or kamikaze into opinion?

The clouds struggle to touch the earth, pulling blankets o'er the horizon. My ambitions melt. I question my stamina. Write love letters to inspiration.

I am already tierd of things I don't want to do. I am numbering my desires and counting my chickens.

Commitment elludes me.
I am still unsure
of what I want to be.

the only way i know how (an apology)

i don't know why i don't know how to love you as i could. I cast my suspicions in the camp of immediacy. Blame it on my reactivity. Suspect that i may be as selfish as you suggest. Prehaps the block is semantic. In the absence of suitable definitions i find myself with nothing to say. This is not to infer that there is no acheing, no longing for things to be another way. For phonecalls to be simple things, full of joy. Prehaps my guilt is muddied by fear, my frustration underwritten by sorrow. And i am a coward who cannot return your calls.

the air has enough bite in it to feel it scrape against skin. There are a million intersections. Crash victims awaken from slumber with contorted limbs. Awakened by brushing up against certain death.

in articulation

the room transforms into a spinning top and the week is overwhelming even before it begins.

all i want is everything. the deceptive simplicity of elegance elludes me. i can barely inhale that first phonecall and everything knocks at the same door at the same time. it's all bottlenecks and daydreams. this mad dance of inspiration and realisation, and all that happens in between.

between sleep and teatime

and the clouds will do whatever you want them to. as long as you give them enough time.

tempests have no paitence. they cannot stand still and bloated, tracing circles like cyclones meandering from coast to coast. terriers of meteorology, they are ferocity without weight.

nonetheless
this day brings bucketfuls of sunshine, splashed on trees and sweat lines. we weave through shadelines, sprawl on grass and perfection is so close it makes me shiver.

not yet there

the new day threatens downpours that never eventuate. i am procrastinating with the sky.

our divinations are mere consellations. a kaliedoscope of meanings transposed onto events. a way to move us from then to now. later remains elusive, flashing in corners like headlights on a winding road.

i am dousing my mind in every elixer i know to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel. content to muddle through hours in silent company; i am pressed up against the notations of life as it is.

these lists beckon beyond my sanctuary
i am reaching
not yet there

displacement theory

thoughts are placed into body. Slipped into pockets between bone and skin. Affections catalouged in vertebrae. Longings swell from shoulder blade to clavical and skull. The femur is the site of old wounds, propelling us into the future as we tense in release. Small sockets and springs, moving in unison from what was to what will be

text book moment

there is a quiet place that finds you at the end of the night. Where all your habits cannot conceal the passage of time across your skin. Lines read like text books across palms. Some indentations never leave us. Some stain us, some embalm us, some conscript us into adventures in far distant lands.

to start with

the week starts with sinew stretching. bones clicked back into place.

skies drizzled with cream puffs and soft springtime breezes. small lists swarming in piles of paper. the low purr of the photocopier alluding to feline pursuits and tangled sheet dreaming.

navigating emptied offices. tripping on phone books and renovations. the sure settling of carpe diems into ce'st la vies.

what to wear when the sky is dressed in clouds

from where we stand the world stretches in so many directions that even the horizon seems dizzy.

on a day built for sleeping i am soft eyes and caffine. stringing sentances together with mismatched words. i await the descent into uncertaintity but by late afternoon it has failed to arrive.

i meditate on elasticity. on interventions that fall with such grace that they are almost divine. i study the stiches in the webs that we weave and am convinced that the whole universe must be made of time.

and on this skyline nothing fails to escape me. there are only expanses made up of physics and human desire. what we cannot see stretches our imagination. i am reaching beyond the reach of my hands.

till clouds sweep me off my feet onto higher planes.

the last drops of the day squeezed from the sky. I supine and languid, sprawled upon soft linen. Touching the clouds with my eyes. I wonder at the slow gesture of the heart and the dizzy heights of the mind. At the spaces between. The flux of beginnings and endings. The sudden revelation of buried desire. Seeking a pattern in chaos. Unopened doors in well windowed rooms. I find no resolution yet resolve to stay centered. Geographically. Metaphorically. Inside.