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Thursday, September 13, 2012

In Victoria training my brain

Donned my partici-pants last night and walked around the inner harbour. The world comes here I noticed. Then again why not? The seas draws us, our earth mother fluids beckons, seeks our immersion. We live cyclically birth to death. Start to finish, step by step. Seeking where we started, striving to reach our inner core, our earth's core.
The world is with us and we are with the world.
We seek out places of transition,borders, edges, the liminal. Our bodies questioning even as our noisy, distracted minds ponder anything and everything but here...and now. Our bodies take us to look, we miss instead. We pass by the small, the miraculous, the heartbreaking, it all gets dismissed and rendered inutile (ok, that's probably not really a word).

Time to rise up, wash up and get out there I guess. Look around a bit. Feel the currant of all things passing around and through me.

Saturday, September 8, 2012


Possible titles for my new submission:

Crisis Clinic
Inundation Outflow
Suicide Notes
bomb Swelter (what the hell, it's a brainstorm)
field effect
soft boil
Post (after, behind, following, subject to, consequently, as a result)
Traumatic (injurious, harrowing, horrific, terrifying)
Stress (Prosody, pattern of rhythm and sound, strain, tension, hassle)
Disorder (confusion, chaos, disarray, upheaval)
PTSD aka Post Upheaval Upheaving Upheaval
Stuttering Psyche Batman


Friday, September 7, 2012

Eating Doubts

nighttime. Awake.  In my head eating doubts. Old shit new shit batshit. Reading a book that at times connects and gives me ideas, thoughts of 180 (degree) actions. It occurs that the connections are for the longings for difference. This long death of a life I am living. And worse, killing those who espouse love for me. Killing their love. Killing their want of life. Certainly draining my own away. It falls away. Little pieces dropping here and there. Feeling empty, the kind of empty I generally fill with food or shopping or playings spider, for hours. On that odd occasion I complete the game it doesn't matter. That strikes me as evidence that I will never get better. I've not the courage to find and do what I must for any chance of happiness. I am afraid if I go where I need to , the hurt I create would be beyond repair. A hurt of the undeserving. The ones who are juat trying to be happy, be content. I am not content. I am not on the right path unless I have somehow strung a line with a carabiner so at minimim I'm riding a long still in touch. I am meant to be me - an artist I think, but at root, me. Sometimes I feel endlessly assailed by the outflow of others sometimes I ponder my eerie disconnect. An inneffectual, life. I consume and mostly just excrete.