missing census questions

did you have any dreams?

how often do you think about death?

how often do you think about the Bermuda Triangle?

what is your coffee order?

what are your doomsday plans?

who do you trust?

do you have a desert island disk?

do you want more than this?

what makes you laugh?

are you (currently) more afflicted by dread or hope?

what (do you think) needs to change?

what do you wish more people knew?

cowboys or aliens?

how is it going to end?

is there something else you wish we asked/want to say?

                thanks for your time.

angels on my shoulders

when I have finished folding laundry and myself I take the final light before nighttime by the creek. plugging my ears with someone else's voice I try to be alone. though I can't hear the stream I can't escape the shriek of my own thinking. birds invisible in shadow watch from branches hanging over a path I can still believe in without seeing. their laughter pierces through whatever silly score of songs I chose for comfort. I call my parents, terrified by my inability to be alone. they join me on my walk. we ask and answer the same questions we will ask tomorrow. our daily census means so little yet it's all I know for sure.

on the stream I ebb and flow between hope and dread. too much of one is dangerous, too little can be foolish. both have the sway to drown me where I drift. I think about moderation and how much better I should be at sitting still. each cloud is different and not every day warrants monuments. I smile at your name when it lights up my phone. maybe the moment is enough.

hope and dread are angels on my shoulders. both imply each other and seem to want me well. I wish I could know them both a little less.

forgetting my glasses

how happy can I be living in perpetual fear of my own apathy? the people on the news start to scare me less. I scare myself with how much more I seem to think about the end of something that has hardly just begun. clouds run heavy with dread for the inevitable, waiting for the fates to pull the rug and send me falling back to earth into my shell. I remember I forgot my glasses crossing tram tracks in the rain. the whole world looks a little softer in the fog. by the window falling into blue light and white noise. I pour a little too much time in finding you a song. perhaps I should have saved some for the census.

the tram back home is packed with sardines craving space / to be anywhere else. I want to be riding my bicycle. golden hour washes through the glass over statues holding vigil on their phones. one woman stands facing the open window she is locked to with her fingers. we watch the sun descend into the suburbs.

sleep as an escape

so lovely to hear from you.

I'm sorry to hear about the food poisoning. I'd never heard the term octogenarian before (it's great). that's a wonderful revelation about sleep as an escape. on reflection I feel the same. with or without dreaming we breathe brief relief from ourselves (or at least the linear narrative of our piece of string) each night.

nice to read that you've made a decision that you're happy with. I hope that the coming weeks of exploration are helpful and kind to you, with pleasant colours and sensations. 

all flowing fine over here. on the advice of trusted friends I am trying my best to trust my feelings and each day as it comes. Amy visiting for the uni open day next weekend.

thinking of you lots and wishing you everything you need and wish for yourself.

lots of love.

subsisting

in spite of every headline

fate

and feeling words neglect

night and day subsist

you and I

still here for now

earth

home

each other’s arms

whichever space we take

forever

til it ends

with incense and a tombstone

tears

a mushroom cloud

or just a change of heart.

watching theatre in a foreign language

my brother treads the streets of old America. he is breathing air none of us have ever known, writing me from eleven thousand feet above the sea. this is the first time he's been alone in months. he says he's feeling strange. loneliness has been patient and I think they're shy to reunite. it's been a while.

we miss each other more when we're apart. to miss each other is a gift. I ask for his thoughts, receiving love and photos from his window in the clouds. he watches theatre in a foreign language. he had no idea what any of the players said or what the action meant. we both think it's kind of wonderful. anything can be absurd to ears that cannot understand. 

before we take away the poison

we talk about coping. there is no cure and so we're left to choose to live. the doctor asks me to consider what I do to try to keep control of myself and every day that beckons I voyage further. I think about the tools I use to manage, the tools that often have sharp edges. how much of this makes sense in words beyond the realms of my cerebrum?

we write the words together: exercise has been a form of self medication. this has been the case for over half a lifetime. I still indulge and this makes sense. even in illusion control can keep me warm. in the long term this needs changing but with grace and calculation. before we take away the poison we should find out why it was needed in the first place.

‘one way to avoid emotions we can’t deal with is to make our body lack the energy to hold them’. I think about the proverb from the pixels on my window. is physical exhaustion a plea from the subconscious for protection from the self? was the exercise for exorcising anger from my bones, releasing out into the wind from which it came? this is more than just a habit. this is how I build my armour. wringing anger / growing / needing more with every push. and the snake sinks her teeth into her tail. her scales are greedy and she knows no moderation.