june

the coldest Sydney has been to me. I’ve sought out warmth from people I am lucky to love. many remain out of reach - different places and time zones. my parents watch movies by the fireplace in the lounge room where my little brother learnt to walk. my little brother walks through cities where I lost myself and opened new doors, places and faces to dream about and miss. somebody eating corn off the cob in the arcade near town hall station. where did I last do this? is the corn as sweet in this hempisphere? at the rally a fourteen year old educates the masses of the implications of the US congress banning use of the Palestinian death toll, illustrating the catastrophic double standard by which holocaust denial is internationally recognised as a crime against humanity. rich white men criminalise discussion of the deaths caused by the bombs they drop. I fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with friends I used to live with. in my dream I’m at church and I see my orthodontist in the pew; I thank him for messing up my teeth. work through each day and money means less. how lucky and silly that I can’t spare a moment for something I love. in a world so ugly can I rationalise wanting more? I’d like to tell stories again. precious time - where does it all go? somebody I love and lived with in Lewes is pregnant. I still sleep with my teddy bear at night.

fragile and small

I feel fragile and quite small right now. the spaces I occupy are not my own. the comfort I enjoy depends on the presence of others. my dreams are held captive by doubt and a mind that insists on the inevitability of disappointment and desolation. I step on people’s toes in my want to know them. they run and I hate the reflection even more. I am held by people who see the mess and stay. I am loved and rebuilt and I keep moving until I can’t again. so it goes.

the boulder over and over. up the hill and down the hill and up again until forever. from the top I see that my hill is not a mountain, that my boulder could be a lot heavier. I am one of the lucky ones. no sooner has the realisation dawned before I lose the boulder to the slope. I follow to the bottom and start again. <<

cold and safe

the days and nights are cold now. I sit at my desk and press the keys. I send emails and edit documents. three or four cups of tea through the work day. one or two in the evening. I check the news every hour or so. with every bomb dropped on a refugee camp or school I try to visualise the numbers. how big is a group of 17? a group of 45? a massacre of 270? what does that look like? I don't bother trying to understand how the numbers are rationalised. I send my emails and edit my documents. I am paid for my work. I pay taxes, which tie me to the bombs dropping on schools and hospitals, all the way from my tiny igloo of a room on the other side of the planet.

my little brother travels with his partner. London first, now Paris. places that have meant a lot to me. he sends photos of art I love and remember seeing for the first time. he walks through places I've been and shared with people I love. I miss him. I miss the freedom and escape and endless distraction of somewhere new. I miss people I won't see again.

the cold keeps me up and I fold into myself. the spiral tightens and I follow. I think of what I lack and unanswered questions. a lot of time lost dwelling on the people that vanish. I count them and wonder what I did to make them disappear. the ghosts make me feel small. more join the ranks with each year that passes, without explanation or even goodbye. no answers. no closure beyond dreamt up reunions. I remind myself that I hurt people too and wish I could take it all away.

I eat and sleep and carry on (and who doesn't?) when I wake I am still here. it's cold but I'm safe.

taxes

the days pass, and I doubt I'd notice if not for folding cranes. I work lots now. the sun comes out and goes down again while I press keys and send emails. I drink a lot of tea and wear cloves to keep my hands warm. the work distracts me from the understanding that nothing is really within my control. I make lists and complete tasks. I go to bed and then I do it again when I wake up. sometimes I try to create something, to write a poem or draw a portrait I'm proud of. but at the end of the day the blank page scares me - I am tired, and feel so ridiculously far from both inspiration and being capable of creating anything of any quality or meaning. I worry that I've ran out of stories, or forgotten how to find them.

despite hating mirrors and striving to be better, I still tie myself in knots over how I'm perceived. my perceptions of other's perceptions of me weigh me down, even in the face of the knowledge that I mean nothing in the face of a world that makes such little sense. I watch bombs destroy cities and read facts and figures on my phone and cry without really weeping or making a sound. the anger is confused as it festers and I still participate in the human project. I go to work and my taxes fund the bombs used to slaughter children in their thousands. I am a cog in the machine. does my awareness of the part I play mean anything?

I think of people I love. sometimes I spend time with them. I can hold and hug them and my heart is warm. I think of people I miss. I wonder where they are now, and hope they're happy. I think of who I want to be, and remind myself that doesn't matter. I think of the way the world is, and I'll cry again. so it goes.