house of mirrors

a girl writes a play about mirrors. I cross the bridge to see a reading in a theatre at the school for acting. a narrator stage left two actresses in masks under the lights. two characters at a party somewhere in Venice dancing kissing laughing. dialogue repeats in ripples with the scene expanding between thoughts and beats felt a little different every time. we see them see themselves their whole bodies in a mirror for the first time. "I have wide eyes ... why did nobody tell me I have wide eyes?" one wants to see the other tries to reach to take off her mask. the other retreats. she is married and unwilling to talk about her mother or the future. could should does not want to be seen. but she looks at the other and she calls her beautiful.

every scene echoes each other. initial impact ripples sharp from under stage lights into dark. a look and a kiss and a feeling. words slip somewhere in between. we watch the actors return and retreat and return again with no knowing what is memory and what imagination. no matter which is which the essence and the feeling came from something. initial impact ripples on.

a boy leaves his seat with more questions. I think about the mirror and the masks and the ripples of an idea wash my memory with unresolve. echoes. if everything is imitation what is left for us to look for? we wake up into the same outcome each day - tired and a little lost or longing - knowing that our doing so goes nowhere. to clean to eat to work to think to shit to love to lie to bleed to cry to learn to dream to sleep to eat and work again. biding time for what? we know the end and yet... ripples. how much of this is for us? how much more is willing dreaming waiting to be seen?

occasional showers

we talk about the god complex of needing to be needed. the thought is a slap into momentary consciousness. who am I when I am not needed? is this why you have hurt so much? if I try to make sense of these feelings I've allowed myself to harbour I only reap new questions. am I mourning you or the belief that I was needed? the idea that you needed to hold me to be in my arms to share yourself and know me as I swore I needed to know you. I thought I felt it in your arms and eyes and kiss. your decision dispelled the illusion. in the debris of misaligned affections and reality I limp from memory to dream in futile odysseys for answers. without being here you hang heavy like a coffin on my shoulders. I greet the same weight every morning. clouds and occasional showers.

seat 28A on the 9:15 back over the sea into the city. I don't know if we ever truly need another but I remember when you wanted me. the memory is a dagger is a mountain is a heartbeat glowing in the dark. I trace the urban sprawl and freeways in the lights. my favourite ghost still haunts this map. I still want to know him.

under the stars (acrylic on canvas)

waking alone in the home that raised me. these walls need cleaning doors need closing rooms need to be exorcised. I strip my bed and the one they leave out for my little brother. he won't be home for Christmas. washing machine rumble underscores my typing sighs remaining neurones I can't will to cooperate. grey clouds hang low over the trees over the flowers and the day to come. I hang the washing anyway.

waiting for rain in the sunroom. I watch the cat sleep through the glass table. breathing gently curled into his tail I wonder what he's dreaming does he dreams or is he free to rest in peace? songs you sent me dance from one window to the next. I paint a memory of us (under the stars) and wonder where you are.

we talk about movies

my friends bought a cat and a cabin in the woods. I drink their tea and take their tour down the hall / out the back / upstairs. every room is beautiful and filled with books. plenty of room for paintings on the walls. for the first time I think about slowing maybe stopping maybe coming home to settle down. they don't ask about what matters so I don't tell them. we talk about movies instead.

drinking takeaway coffee waiting on a bench between the market and the water. reading all about love. still thinking of you. in the car dad asks if I scared you away. I don't like the question and don't know if I want to know the answer. you once told me that these eyes could make you cry. it's funny you're the reason they won't stop.

I miss you or at least the way it felt. I hope you're doing well out there.

at the wedding

mum cuts my hair after the rain. she started back when we were kids to save money and I don't know if she's good at it or just knows my hair better than strangers. on the balcony I sit she cuts and does the job in minutes. the wind takes care of any evidence. in the mirror with less hair I look a little younger than before. I wonder if you'd notice / what you'd think / where and how you are.

I wear a black shirt to a wedding. my brother recognises the purple tie I bought for my first funeral. the bride has done her back / sits in a chair / can't join us for a dance. I thank her for inviting me with little more to say. we drink from glasses that shatter when we drop them on the dance floor. not knowing anybody I am moving just for fun without the burden of appearances or consequence. I think of dancing: in the smoke / the dark under the bar / nothing in my room. the floor is cold and almost empty. you're there glowing without knowing.

in the supermarket carpark

home for a moment to remember to forget. Saturday morning walk in a break in the clouds / the rain. along the creek listening to the stream / my mother talk about work and her friends. she wears purple and sometimes holds my hand. I take a photo of the clouds over the trees over the water. this place is beautiful. I wish that I could show you. dad slips on a rock trying to cross the river. wet pants wet socks we cancel coffee plans.

waking to a hailstorm on the windscreen in the supermarket carpark, waiting for my parents in the backseat like a child. the stones are heavier and angrier than ever. through the window I watch the asphalt disappear in minutes. the stones fall quicker and louder still. craving something else I open the door and step out into the tempest. I stand on the street in the hail, let the ice fill my hair / cleanse my skin / freeze my heart. when I close my eyes I still see you. when I open them I scream.

a stranger dreams

a stranger in the mirror forgets his dreams without someone to ask about them. remember when we'd colour every morning for each other... an absence is a hollow / is a nightmare / is just another boulder. silence is a sentence / is a valley / is some other kind of sacred. a stranger says your name like a prayer. you're not here though the silence screams. he can't hear himself think.