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Posts from the ‘rebirth’ Category

Strange Opening

The gap you left
Must be filled
With a new kind of love
Your body
On my body
The perfect dance
Of how it should be
But things are
What they are
And we twist and turn
Caught in the knot of reality
How to surrender
Breath by breath
Without giving up?
A dive into dark
And a longing for life
Leads the way
Unknown
To a strange opening
Freshly lit
By a light touch
And a fledgling trust
That something
Will
Happen

 

 

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Autumn Self

My autumn self is walking
Not knowing where it is going
But feeling
The outstretched arms of orange trees
The empty expanse of a damp cold field
Reaching inside to a place that is tender
An aching seed of shaky surrender that says
This is it then?
This isn’t half bad
Or half good
Don’t try and be the one you think you should
The gaps between things are trying to tell you to slow down
Stop even
Breathe in the Saturday afternoon gloom
It’s only going to get worse after all
So why not start small?
Admit that success is a tiny fire in the heart
Nothing more
Nothing to roll over and die for
And this dull absence of everything you want
Is simply the vacuum from which all is created
Even as long as you have waited
It was only ever the beginning
Of endlessness

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.

Unborn

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

It ain’t happening.

I DIGRESS. I PREGNANT TIGRESS.

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CAUTION

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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

GIVE UP THE PLAN