sick enough

the first documented case of the disease was a few hundred years ago in England. the teenage son of a preacher. they didn't have a name for it back then, and though you can pay for therapy now we still don't know how to talk about it. he was sixteen. they tried to cure him with all sorts of medicines, both natural and artificial. disappointed by his unchanging condition, the doctor prescribed a milk diet and horse-riding in the country air. his records detail the boy recovered his health 'in a great measure', despite not being 'perfectly freed' from his condition.

some of the best research on the disease was unethical and could never be greenlit today. I read about a study in Minnesota from the wartime. a group of scientists with the goal of understanding the impact of starvation on the body. in the findings I cut my fingers on glimpses of myself like shards of broken mirror. cold hands and feet. obsessive pre-occupation with the act. increased apathy and feelings of hopelessness. a loss of ambition and drive to connect. dizziness. most of the men involved in the study managed to find their feet and fill their clothes again. there's an irony in being asked to search for hope from such morally murky waters. 

the doctor asks what I think of the word. I don't know how to answer and hate to be wasting his time. this money could do much more for somebody else. how many starving children might it feed? he leaves me with homework and an invoice for his time. I close the tab and turn to emails but his question lingers like a scar. I close my eyes to listen as its orbit coils the confines of my skull. does anyone ever think they're sick enough?

apathy

they herd the starving in their thousands into fences like cattle to wait for the food they’ve been neglected for months. if not from the targeted dropping of taxpayers’ bombs on shelters and hospitals, they’ve been dying from starvation in the streets. there’s footage of the swarm rushing across the sand to the distribution point. I watch them spill into the queues like crushed tins of sardines and wonder how many of them have eaten this week. the soldiers oversee the operation: the same men who shoot these children in their homes and dress up in their victims’ clothes for fun. once more we see the masses left at the whim of the murderers of their parents and children and homeland. waiting under gunpoint and unforgiving sun for crumbs that never come. the men start shooting - bored or threatened by the thought of feeding starving children - and once more I’m streaming slaughter on my phone. it’s less surprising every time, and easier to shut off and carry on with myself the more I read and see online.

when I sleep I do so knowing I’ll wake to news of more lives lost to weapons I’ve paid for. no blood on my pillow: I’ve been sleeping fine. there’s a parasite growing in my body, sucking blood from vital organs. my heart starts to shrink a little too quickly. I fear the apathy that feeds on every absent swipe away.

hit or miss

I walk through the rain to the store after seeing the doctor. the seat of my bike is damp and I steer her cross the tram lines like a dog I can control. at the supermarket I buy markers and pasta for craft. steal some string from the drawer in the lounge and thread beads between tiny tubes of macaroni. I wear my necklace on the tram alone and present the sad boy with his a moment before he’s due onstage. he’s surprised by the gift and thanks me with a promise to play the song. I cradle the glass against my collarbone and whisper along to the words of the poems he plays on my phone to keep me safe at night. for a moment I forget the body and the world I inhabit and there is nothing but the feeling between reaching the pillow and dreaming. he jokes about selling records and tees before sending us back to sleep. I pocket the napkin runes with his scribbles from the stage the moment he descends into past tense and the crowd.

between sets at the old bar

‘we’ll watch this gig. go home. donate to a charity. watch the last of us. what a great night! if you’re bored you can leave. it’s okay.’

now I watch

wake to scenes of another school up in flames. children sleeping in the classrooms (their homes already flattened by the siege). the blaze surrounds the silhouette of a girl trying to find her way out of the building through the window. you can watch the footage on your phone. the video ends and we don't know if she escapes. I wonder if she has parents to return to or if the bombs have left her orphaned.

the morning is a seat at the desk and an empty head. I tend to inboxes and tiptoe through documents unaffected by the news I read and the lifeless faces I see on my phone. at some point I'll think about my capacity to carry on and crawl back into my wrinkled routine of mundanity and self-obsession no matter what I hear or know about the world outside. maybe I will start to question how desensitised I've become to the suffering of others and what this says about the size of my heart and capacity to channel the compassion I once took such pride in. sometimes I stop and scare myself at how little I manage to care, how much my openness has closed in the face of disillusionment with the world and what I can't control. kindness was a weakness once. I used to care too much. now I watch children burn alive while brushing my teeth.

I hang my clothes to dry with questions I can never ask. listen out for birds that never come. maybe time to try again soon.

claws

the cat scratches his reflection in the mirror. twitching bell and claws against the glass, all too early for the sun. the frozen city still asleep. he wants attention or food. I give him both and run myself a bath. in the basin the water covers the skin with warmth in ways the blankets never could. I hold my nose and dip my head under like I did as a child in the same body. open ears listen to nothing but the underside of momentary ripples from the plunge against the edges. eyes closed. nose and bones rinsed free of the cold that rattled them awake. beautiful darkness and something close to silence. a stillness I forget between the dreaming and the laundry. what else should I be looking for?

in the screen forever

sharing the room with a cat. he meows at the window. I wonder what he’d think about the bombs and listen to the laundry whir in the machine next door. scratches and jump to the top of the castle to watch over his kingdom and the television. there is nothing playing and he will sit and look at his reflection in the screen forever. black expanse of nothing and some faces if the light is right. you can check your hair before you leave.

too many vases on the mantel. bouquet of flowers left to wilt in waiting on the dining table. misplaced or unwanted affections or maybe just a case of not enough space or time. two guitars against the fireplace and a film I’d like to watch. my cousin wants to bake and make a soup. I want to fall into the crevasse of the couch. the cat watches the screen and nothing happens til it does.

I think about myself

I think about myself and pick out grey hairs in the mirror while a generation starves to death. for the most part they're left without food or parents by now. I watch them seek shelter in the remains of schools reduced to rubble. the cities are empty shells, demolished by bombs manufactured with the science and material funded by the taxes from my payslip. I think about myself and check my phone while the amputees wait for death on rags in what's left of hospital hallways. there are no more supplies to treat them or any of the massacre survivors. children broadcast the scenes from their phones. doctors can do nothing but starve with those they lack the tools to care for. I think about myself and desperately want more while I witness a holocaust from the comfort of the couch. the people shout for sanctions and the men in suits use big words. screams of children flee another village up in flames. rattle of empty pots against the fence. not enough rice for even half a bowl to feed a family. I think about myself and wonder what it takes to wake me up. the news is bad and my fridge is full but I still ride to the shops for something to do.

something from the fridge

at the witching hour I break through the back door of the last house I called home. creep into the kitchen to steal something from the fridge. my shelf overflows with exotic food I could never buy or justify and I remember I don't live here anymore. a crow cries from the neighbour's roof. I take something from the highest shelf (I can't remember what) and close the door too loud. another opens down the hall just beyond the room I used to pay for. footsteps and my grip on the snack I've stolen and the handle outside won't loosen. I am caught in the act of trespass and robbery from the house I used to live in by a stranger I shared walls with. she yawns at the sight of me, as though I'd been marked in her calendar and broke in later than expected. there's a hug and questions about where I've been and what I need from the house. the hospitality makes as much sense as her response to burglary. escape into the cold, words choked by my embarrassment. I run in bare feet down the pavement through the yard. familiar cat fences fold onto a path sliding down into the garden where my parents raised me, now filled and flowing with water like an ocean. I dive to touch the lawn where they buried the cat and swim round the lemon tree. an assortment of acquaintances call out from the balcony as the water rises. I think I'll reach them and the shed will be a submarine soon but the Russian doll sings and I wake to the cold and more news of bombs dropped on children again.

and the pier

on the bridge we pass the people waving flags for the other side. they shout against our chanting and wave signs that don't make much sense to me or the new friend I've made along the way. I carry my own I drew on each side of the cardboard from the cupboard with the pens my brother stole. 'wake up' and 'stop killing children'. the words are fickle fronts and do little for the anger that boils beneath the mask I bring into the crowd on the streets. the opposition calls us terrorists as we pass them in our thousands. we dwarf them without trying though it doesn't matter: they have the fat men with the weapons and the money on their side. the march leads our chants beyond my map of the city I've seen so far, through the arts precinct, down the boulevard of diplomatic consulates on the tram tracks into the afternoon. residents of apartments we pass take to their balconies and open windows to cheer, hanging flags and banners. others curse the crowd and slam their windows closed. we're too loud and should keep our cries off the streets.

at the end of the road we spill out onto the lawn rolling down to the sand. afternoon sun falls on nets of thousands of kites cast between trees on the breeze. a coloured sheet folded for every child killed with our taxes. we disperse and make our way back to our shells for another week of playing life with our jobs and phones and shopping lists. I bide my time and take the boardwalk round the bay, past children running with their kites still soaring high and the pier we said we'd visit. now I've seen it without trying, silhouettes of strangers walking out into the sea and through the windows in the clouds on the horizon. gentle moving blurs of grey that could be us or anyone. the clouds hang low and I leave them alone. even so far out that's enough magic for me. and it's really nice.

turning rocks

not a thought for anything more than the next step with the music playing. only sprint or try to pick up the pace when sharing the path: the run only matters with someone there to watch me move and maybe overtake. if a tree falls and nobody is there to see etc. I pass the creek on the track between showers. the stream moves slow and nervous, if at all. there are reflections and thoughts to draw from turning rocks. I run through the urge to stop without even taking a picture. the people are watching and I’m making good time. I wish I’d listened to the stones and wonder what they might have said.

days will fall into weeks and soften memory’s edge to sounds more vague and less harsh on the heart. when the sun sets and the clouds roll in nothing is much more than time spent and space filled for a moment. I see you on my phone and in my dreams and monuments are made of nothing more than this: a disordered assortment of moments that have come to pass. they’re always building statues somewhere.

or a platform

it’s all the same in the silence when I wake to more tomorrow. dreams laid to rest inside my head on pillows in an empty bed.

I am where I was

and cannot reach beyond

the space between

belonging

a gap to mind

tomorrow

or a platform I can’t leave

by the edge of the world

in my head

out of touch

far from any track or train

waiting in the clouds for rain

or natural selection

sitting on the boulder

past the point

of resurrection.

beyond/beneath

beyond thinking or beneath? time between sleep lost to white noise and laundry. dreams blur too quick, spoiled by the sun and her demands. you were so much closer til I woke. would our cards be different had I told you something else?

the face of change

reluctant sleeper listens to the shower past his bedtime. from the next room he envies the water running free through the pipes in the wall. no ties or expectation in the face of change forever. no choice but to surrender to the whim of tomorrow in the stream that never stops. you smile outside my window in a dream. I want to see the moment through your eyes and make you breakfast in the morning. we wake alone and out of touch until the rain comes back again.

scenes from a death cafe

the death cafe is hidden through a passage behind the children's corner. I find my way by looking lost enough for library staff to ask if I need help. the room is artificial like an office, decorated with strangers huddled over cups of tea. we sit around grey tables and introduce ourselves. more than half of us have never been before. the man to my left had seen the same flyer on the town hall noticeboard that I kept passing and thinking about. two of the others at our table work in the death industry. on the ride home I wonder how much this impacted our conversation: were we starting with an unfair advantage, or were our thoughts and questions contained by the tools and tricks of those paid to make others make sense of death and dying?

we talk about fear. most of the table is scared of dying. all of us harbour fears of losing people we love. a mother recounts the feeling of tending to her own mother's estate and realising that nobody is left and she is next in line. an analogy of an escalator going nowhere, with nobody left in front. there is talk of losing control before death as our bodies and brains start to let us down (if, of course, we enjoy the privilege of growing old). in my head I connect this loss of control to the way I was born: completely dependent on the care and concern of my parents. we play with the idea of beginning and closing our lives without control until control is written off as an illusion by a death industry expert. I agree with her instantly and laugh at the coiling snake I'd drawn to make sense of a mess we all make without explanation.

questions about rituals and plans. some of us have written wills. others have settled advanced care plans to lighten the load at the end of their life. dependents become responsible for the parents they once depended on. it makes sense to plan ahead and make less work for everyone. the doula doesn't want to be cremated but might be convinced if her ashes could be scattered over all of her favourite places. she should leave behind a treasure map for her children. another lady has written instructions to have her ashes turned into a diamond. we ask what she wants to be done with the diamond. she says it doesn't matter. she won't be around to care.

the cafe closes and we disperse into the dark. I help the doula stack the chairs to prolong going home. she thanks me with a smile that knows I need her faith in the belief that I am kind and care for others. I see my pathetic reflection in the eyes of a stranger: squirming on my knees for validation from the death midwife herself. enough to get me off and out the door into the cold. I catch my breath in the glow of the streetlight and retreat towards the salad in the fridge.

an orange candle

between improvised meetings and emails I pay a stranger to ask about my habits and health. an hour of his time could feed a village of the children starving through the famine on my phone. I watch these demons I feed freely leach away at figures that could do much more for someone else. embarrassed and controlled by strings I’d tied and read as choice. I think of the man on the street wrapped in old jackets. the city ebbs and washes over as he sleeps beside an orange candle in the cold. 

the drivers change at Mitchell St, with one heading home as the other clocks on for the night. an exchange of keys and words I can’t hear beyond the house of cards. the incoming driver is smiling as she boards and locks herself in at the front of the tram. we’re moving again and I hide from the reflection in the window: a stranger to the city and myself. 

between reaching for blankets

between reaching for blankets I stop and try to hear myself. the silence isolates me from the certain refuge of distraction, and it takes a while to hear anything at all. the voice inside is quiet, and doesn't have a lot to say. I want to apologise for hiding and keeping my distance for so long. we both know that to learn and grow we have to come home to each other, though the thought itself is enough to keep me running. I am a stranger to the heart that keeps me moving. is it out of resentment that I neglect myself? perhaps I fear the questions I'll ask if I listen close enough. to reach for more is second nature now. at this point, I'll chase anything to drown out the uncertain loneliness of my own company. I wonder if we still speak the same language. will I ever do the work? I read the news and laugh at the war in my head from the sofa. how much can really matter to a world that doesn't want to know itself?

into scales

something more than words but not enough to write them off. waking from a dream enjoyed but never quite believed in. coil and cave into myself. I hide from the war I thought less about with you, like everything I lack and loath. the snake finds its tail and teeth sink into scales. we end where we begin to wake and do the same again. will we hold a candle to the way this feels tomorrow?

in the fresco

the absurd is a hug waiting on the platform at the end of the line. 'welcome home'. I take his hand to close the openness I can't deny enjoying with your help. his fingers are cold and familiar in a way yours could never be, though I can't say I wanted more than what you offered out of momentary intrigue. was it kindness in the end? when the sanctity of night retracted its claws, and the crows stirred, and the early rays of day colonised the delicate darkness of your room, and you woke to find me wrapped and fragile by your side, did you know you had to run? had you noticed the cracks in the fresco up close as I slept? did the spell break all at once? I start to think in past tense, though you were just around the corner. maybe if we used our words you still could be. maybe if I use my words you are.

the end of days alone

they drop bombs on a school of sleeping children who have lost their homes and parents. I follow along with the headlines (when I want to) between emails. from my desk I listen to the rain fall to soak my washing on the line. watch a little war on my phone to remember nothing matters in a world that won’t wake up. they target four cities at once and I can tune in from the comfort of my phone. I stream the end of days alone and hope you’ll try to reach me soon.

at your door

what was there was always more than enough. there’s no path to knowing what is truly meant by the choice of words we wield to frame the way we feel. make a guessing game of an open book and spiral into doubt. lying on the sand a question sprouts to close a door I never knew had opened. it’s then I see the way you’ve drawn me: a broken toy at once both fragile and desperate for more. he’s pathetic and I am rattled into feeling embarrassed like a child; told off for doing something wrong, going somewhere that I shouldn’t. I laugh in shock at misperception as we watch the clouds roll in. clear skies all confused now, not knowing I know better than to play with hope or want.

left embarrassed by rejection for a prize I never played for. I try to pull some sense from words that won’t align with how we’ve played it out til now. you wait for me to change and watch the skyline of the city from the grass. I wonder what you mean and if I’ll ever take your picture again. we leave things where I could almost swear we’d left the risk of hope or expectation (at your door). a place in a city where we’ve been no matter what’s to come.

finding the stones

follow the lines into the city left behind (for more?) familiar turns and street signs flash at passing headlights. I come crawling back much sooner than I should. clouds close into dark til tomorrow. wrapping myself in the embrace of armour stolen from my brother’s wardrobe I read and think of mystics and the people I admire. the artists talk about knowing themselves. I wonder how they feel about the war. the bus is pulling in now and I’m back where I was: as far from finding the stones as before. grip the moon round my neck and smile into windows between want and all the beds I need to make.

invisible ink

trace the roads on the map with fingers down veins into your hands. listen to the strangers sob down your neck, closer than the horse hanging over shoulders in the blue light of the nightmare at the end of the world. an ankle on an ankle through act ii and we talk without words in the dark. everything is fluid: I reach in the stream and nothing can be held but you are here today and there is always more to come.