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Posts from the ‘attachment’ Category

A Beautiful Dream

Grit flying in my face and the wind in my hair
I went to dismantle the illusion that held you here
A castle on top of a hill overlooking a lake
I climbed the stairs to the place where you must have been
Only hours before
Just to feel you a little longer
Together we hauled planks of wood
Packed up condiments and cake
Stacked the remains of a beautiful dream
Until later
Dirty hot and riding in the back of a tractor
Wedged between fridges and weights and shelves
My body aching from longing and heavy lifting
I returned to my van for a lie down
To find your scent still hanging in the air
Dressing my hair
And the sheets of the bed we broke together
I lay down with you in mind
The memory of your shape against mine
The laughter and luminous joy of our last night’s play
I thought of the way you conjure words that weave magic and mystery around my mermaid smile
While mine are blunt and crude as my fear of losing you
When I awoke chilly and alone
And saw that Berlin is big and you are far
I felt disheartened and bewildered
Until I remembered
That this desolate spinning star
Revolves on the fuel of the fire we breathe
In and out of each other
Somewhat revived
I put on my oceanic beads and went out to join the dancing and goodbyes
Later as the sun failed to rise
I packed up my own illusion
Burning with the sadness of not being held
Grabbed my guitar and headed for the slippery train
So hard to hold onto anything
As the remains of summer kiss the bright sky
I watch the past unfold into the present at alarming speed
And wonder what will become of us
Now the damage is done


A familiar pain
Brushes my heart’s raw surface
The taste of clinging

Under My Bed

I am clearing the fluff out from under my bed. To quote Michael Rosen. In this case fluff is a metaphor for stuff I think I don’t need. That I suspect is keeping me awake. The whole thing’s a metaphor for my mind which is what’s really keeping me awake. Although it could be a chicken and egg thing.

How do creationists respond to the chicken and egg thing? Is it not a thing for them at all? Because God created each thing separately, but not the baby versions – that would have taken ages. He just created chickens and let them go forth and get on with it. I imagine. In that version of things.


How I would love to have a secure version of things.

It ain’t happening.




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I am clearing the stuff out from under my bed. I am dividing things into Past and Present. There is no pile for Future. Past has been severely reduced. Edited. Tough decisions have been made. Did your wedding thank you card make the grade? Was your personal message worth hanging onto? Why did I keep that card with a cat on it and not your homemade christmas tree? I cannot tell you.

Should I have chucked that 22-page letter that I never sent about how angry I was and how I loved you deeply in spite of it? Not yet. Is someone at the Recycling Plant going to steal my emotional identity and attempt to make sense of themselves? Good luck to them I say. Perhaps they will succeed where I have failed.

For someone who does not paint I have a bewilderingly large collection of watercolours.

I am wondering whether there is a proper way of disposing of an old printer with whom the relationship has not survived a very rocky patch. It refused to print the words I requested, it did colours and it did blurry lines. For a while we struggled with each other, then there was silence. In that silence, I decided that it was time to end it. I’ve never been very good at endings. However, I am starting with inanimate objects, as a training.

PHOTOS. Boxes and boxes of old headshots that I painstakingly posted to people on whose desks I thought I was supposed to appear. I’m not dying or anything – at least no more quickly than I should be, as far as I am aware. And yet something is dying and something is birthing and I can’t tell you what’s what or what’s not what. So I am clearing out the stuff from under my bed.

When you have done something for a long time it is difficult to stop doing it. Once you stop doing it you may find it barely enters your head ever again. Such is the fickle nature of the mind and its attempt to grasp at meaning somewhere. I am stepping out into the unmarked swamp of nowness. I am sinking, Egypt, sinking. My songs are smarter than I am. Here’s a vow



things come together and fall apart

heart full, heart empty

sad longing pierces the dawn of open space



Cleaning out my room, slowly and deliciously savouring every memory, listening to Ani DiFranco songs. Found this poem in an old notebook, from when I was on tour one time. It’s about synchronicity.

that moment today
when I cycled past you and her
on my bike and you were holding hands
and I swerved
dropped everything and fell off
that was me
hoping you wouldn’t notice
for a change


Ever since I wrote a song about moths I have noticed that more and more of them seem to be taking up residence in my closet. I don’t want to have this kind of relationship with my music. Life imitating art is decidedly spooky. And besides, the moth dies in the song. You hear that, moths? No. They hear nothing. Nothing but the high-pitched sounds made by predatory bats, of which there is a bewildering dearth in my bedroom.

I am sorry to sound vindictive; I have always let moths be, small and apparently harmless as they are. Even when I saw one or two of them sculling around in my knicker drawer. How naive. And then yesterday I made an alarming discovery. The moths are eating my clothes! And not just any clothes. My nicest, most expensive woollen jumpers. These moths, whom I have allowed to co-habit with me, no questions asked, are now repaying me by destroying the very shirts off my back!

But it’s more sinister than that. Researching into the habits of moths, I discover that they just want to get close to me. They particularly like to eat through clothes that have traces of sweat, skin and oil from human hair. Next thing I know I’m going to wake up in the night to find one of them staring at me with a manic, desperate look in its eyes. Perverts! Rooting through my wardrobe looking for bodily secretions. I feel unclean. They cannot be allowed to continue. For their own sake as well as mine. It would be cruel to let them think that this is normal, healthy behaviour. Something must be done. There may be no survivors.

The Way The World Works

As I appear to be approaching adulthood I have been turning my attention to the way the world works. It seems to me there are certain patterns at play which it would be in my best interests to stop ignoring.

This afternoon I was chatting with a German friend of mine on Facebook – let’s call him Rutger – although his real name is in fact “Mr Beautiful.” Can you imagine. With a name like that, would it be possible ever to experience self-loathing? Even the slightest tinge of insecurity would see me standing at the mirror smacking my lips saying “Come on Mr Beautiful, who’s the daddy?” And it would be me, every time. But I digress.

So Rutger tells me that he is becoming a musician. He helped out a friend of his on a song which went to number 1 and now he’s a household name. He was very excited. “It’s a lot of fun.” he said. He was however sensitive to the fact that this instant success might be somewhat galling to someone who has devoted their life to a career in music, but I was curious.

We are taught that you put effort in and you get a result. In many cases this is true. Such as tree-planting. Or cake-baking. If you sit with eggs and flour and sugar on the table and get on with something else, nothing happens. If, on the other hand, you whisk them up and put the mixture in the oven, cake necessarily ensues. So the consequences are quite direct in this case.

What gets tricky is where other people are involved. Other people cannot be predicted or indeed imposed upon to act in a certain way. Nevertheless there are certain things that other people tend to respond to, and certain things they don’t. Desperation is repellent. In any field. But so is complete disengagement. Like a tree with no roots, the appeal of vacuousness cannot last.

What truly fascinates is art of the self-sustaining variety. It seems that you must turn up on the spot with every pore of your being and manifest wholeheartedly, without a shred of attachment to the outcome. The moment of creation itself is like this. Whether it’s a song, a sculpture or a baby you’re making – when the inspiration strikes you are not thinking of the consequences.