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.