the museum of modern love

I close tabs for an email from a friend: a book review for a novel she bought on her trip to my hometown. we were in the store and she said she wanted to read something from the island. I recommended a book I hadn't read by an author I've only heard about through other people. something about an artist I don't know much about. on the phone she tells me the book has taken her to New York rather than the Tasmanian wilderness. she had wanted to read about the place I grew up - a confession she makes at the start of the review. I guess I let her down on that front, though I care less about my fault in reading where the novel took her. it seems she passed through far more important places than a closer understanding of the stolen land I learnt to walk on.

she writes and asks me to be still and listen. the I am challenged by the invitation. the review opens a generous glimpse of the tapestry she's weaving upstairs in the current moment. there's an openness to her voice that rarely carries on the words of someone so wise. blinds left undrawn, sincere without the wistful hope of naivety. she finds reflections of herself in revelations from the trials of the mystic followed in the book. a desire for intimacy with a heart closed by an epoch of dishes and headlines too pressing for hope. prophets see the stars: every good thing ends and all we have is one foot in the stream. she casts a fresh sheet of glass from these fragments of herself. tears and more tomorrow. I see myself through her new window and I think she sees me too. 

John

death of a family friend: third husband of my father's ex employer. a sudden stroke at eighty something. he would catch us fish from the shore and make me feel useful in the kitchen while he cooked us dinner. invested in my interests and whatever I brought to the table. I remember his lessons on red wine etiquette before hitting double digits in the village. my brother and I caught his stomach bug on a week at their place with the backyard pool on the coast. I was sick by the car and he patted my back at the airport drive-by drop-off. he liked to read and knew me better than my grandparents. I'll miss his hugs and funeral. the clock ticks over and we roll on as we were without quite knowing why.

into solstice sun

away for a moment. we wake before we would have liked to swim into the sunrise of the shortest day. freezing sea as still as glass. I slip under and feel the burning through the skin into my bones. on the surface hues of blue give way to pastel pinks and yellows. morning clouds and a slight chance of hypothermia. I retreat into the refuge of my own arms and a towel.

I peal the paper from the ceiling of the bedroom of my youth. pages torn from a book I never read flake onto the bed; reluctant leaves, late autumn breeze. nine years of mould and long forgotten cracks left by the weather or the weight of possums in the attic now exposed. I catch a glimpse of my former hopes and wistful disillusionment in the pathetic fractures of the paint. there are bruises behind every postcard and other paper relic cast from former lives upon the wall. this whole room needs an exorcism. am I ready to grow up?

the leader of the free world plays with world war three for fun. I read the news as it comes and watch us bomb our way to hell. you can tune in when you want. there's always something else. what world will I wake to when I get up in the morning?

someone else's school

I lose the thoughts before they come

open tabs to freeze

they buffer under expectation

on a network underresourced

I want too much

the stuff of dreams I forget

I want too much

and waste my time

in shards of glass that fuel my hate

I see myself in faces on my phone

posing idols and friends

and children who’ll be dead by time I wake

apathy and anger

a holiday I'd kill for

ego and the funeral pyres our taxes made of someone else's school

heroes I can choose to chase

springs of love to draw from

I make my bed and sleep

safe from bombs and consequence

for what I've seen and choose to hide from

because it's all a little much

praise me for my boundaries

let's see what else is on

resign the living to the nightstand

til I choose to care again.

drawing from the well

what joy can be drawn from the well of dreams. waiting nervous outside a party by the curb, dawdling just beyond the path down to the beach that raised me. I start to shake a little. my parents are reluctant to leave me to venture alone like this. a colleague finds me at the mouth of the path and I follow his lead into the shadows down the cracked sandy pavement, winding closer to the flames on the beach, the murmurs of the crowd, the music.

dusk grey gives way to bright moonlight cast through mid-winter blue. my nerves shield me from the claws of the cold and I only shiver from anticipation of the chance of crossing paths with someone I've been seeing in my dreams. familiar faces in the crowd delight in passing pleasantries and offering another pour of wine. we gather in groups only to compete and celebrate, hoping to catch glimmers of our own ambitions in someone else's beauty or performance reflected back in strobes through the shine of light on bottles and white teeth. we listen to satiate the ego's cries for validation. I sense my saviour round a corner and lose what grasp I'd managed to tie to confidence despite the sweat and nerves. swift escape up the hill and ride the bike as far into the city as I can.

I stop to rest at the weathered remains of an old church or convict prison in a park I've never played in. lampposts and a well kempt lawn beyond crumbling walls in the middle of the city. an audience surrounds the pillars and I'm left with no choice but to join their ranks as actors in period costume take the stage to tell an unfamiliar story. my bike glares back at us through the sandstone arch like a time machine, turquoise frame upstaging delicate frills and old english. the congregation is enthralled by the drama, though the dialogue screams a classic we all should have been made to read at school. by time the players take their bows for our applause I've forgotten why I came and my shirt is no longer enough to ward off the cold. 

the audience disperses and I take to the stage to retrieve my bike. and then you're there - smiling and as beautiful as forgetting something sad. you saw me on the beach and left alone to find me. I don't bother asking how you knew to reach me here. there's an urge to dig a hole and have you push me in to cover up forever. but you hold me and we dance and end up as we were before. I'm warm again and there's no sense to make but I still have dreams and maybe this is more than enough.

somewhere in the glass

every place I drag this sack of limbs and dreams becomes a waiting room. I watch the clock and count the patients as they pass. breathing and collecting dust on chairs just long enough to vacate warm for someone else. a lonely brain (or train of thinking) emptied at my old school. values abstractify to faint colours and hums with too much to watch on my phone. I can forget how to think and relinquish my grasp on the present as in sleep. passing sounds of footsteps. an automatic sliding door shares a glimpse of tomorrow and forever in the artificial light. somewhere in the glass passage between places. dormant in an empty screen. I keep my headphones on.

lamingtons

take the ladder to the grotto in the sky. read the memories and markings on the wall. epiphanies and nonsense. choose life and tomorrow and funeral food. etchings still concealed within the timber of the treehouse, as hard to reach as ever. my taxpayer funds build playgrounds at home and bomb schools on my phone. admire the porthole view and wonder how many children could be fed with the rubber turf alone. I picture myself falling from the rope on the journey up into broken bones and bed rest. no doubt I’ll slip up sometime soon. what am I if not forever caught between mistakes and mystic accidents?