Ghosts

The last of the rustic... *sniff*

An old fear, a dull ache, thought long gone, sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Triggered by a word, an old photograph, a terrifying admission, a piece of music you’ve never heard before that unravels you, lonely agony, muted emotions, promises, and left-behinds. A house and its memories, a cramped balcony, a cityscape at night. A montage of photographs, a legacy of books, the end of a life, of lifelines and links. Chains and things, with patches of rust that you fear will grow. Of habit, a familiar pattern, a comfort, a home. Wordless drives at night dissolving in music, stars on a bedroom ceiling. Warmth, and hazy winter mornings, dusty curtains flapping in a gentle breeze, a familiar shape stretched out on a bed, a sleepy grin, a view etched in memory.

Faces in conversation

Crickets in the day. Wherever would you hear crickets during the day?!

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How well do you really know your face? If you suddenly had to describe it to someone, every contour, every scar, every blemish, the shape of every eyelash, the tint on each cheekbone, the texture of your eyebrows, the little 'ant' crawling purposefully toward your left eye, without a mirror or the touch of your fingers for reference, for guidance, how far would you reach in the attempt? Mirrors, photographs, portraits –- all impotent, shockingly inadequate in the quest to know a face inside out, to remember it forever, suspended in a moment in time. Because to know a face as it exists even if for just a single, fleeting instant, is to transcend the tiniest of gaps, physical and otherwise, between you and that face, even your own. Reach out and touch a face, and let your fingers linger over your favourite bits, understand your least favourite ones, read every hollow, traverse every bridge. Quietly drink in that face, that expression, gently surprised at each new discovery. And then observe that sudden, startling insight into a soul etch itself into your mind, a permanent, unshakeable, unchangeable memory. Years will fly, and the world will pass you by, but you will never forget the moment your fingers learned that face.

The skin within

Putting on a show for an invisible, disinterested audience. Speaking, incessant chattering, desperately seeking a spark of recognition, a nod of acknowledgment, approval, affirmation.

Unwavering coldness to contend with, a mask of disillusionment, of irrational anger, of helpless, silent misery. Refuge in the solitude of memory, an escape to another place, another time, anywhere but here. Distracted with nothingness, a pervasive vacuum. Staring into space, lost in idle hope, failing to keep abject boredom at bay. An aching for more, complete ignorance of what that ‘more’ is.

Exhausted by inactivity. Silent screams. Lying in bed for lack of anything, anyone to wake up to, for. Dead in the head, lost in regret, itching for action. Examining toes. Shuddering in the cold, swatting mosquitoes. Counting sheep, deafened by crickets, violent snores, battles with nocturnal demons, otherworldly phantoms.

Disappointment with words, lack of clarity, of articulation, of coherence. Futile attempts at energy. Lack, loss, silence, darkness. A blanket of disarray. Silent and waiting, intrepid resignation. Giving up the ghost. Giving up any feeble attempt to be understood, refusing to emerge from behind the wall. Words in circles, and loops, twisted, meaningless to anyone but yourself. Breathing noisily, writing fitfully, uselessly. Eyelashes, spectacles, swigs of water, moaning in sleep, listening, idly wondering what devils force those moans, gasps, rasps, sighs.

Shafts of light from a door ajar. The glow of a dim lamp. The glow of music, of words, close companions both. Firecrackers, bangs, rolls of thunder, more moans, starts, jerks. An insect crawling up a leg, a timid trek. Amber embers, incense. Incensed. Inhaling the incense, choking on the fragrance. Heady, heavy, toxic, intoxicated, in your skin, within your mind. Inside a book, calling out to a lion, a skin. In its skin. The skin of a lion.

Grey Scales

"You are my centre, when I spin away"

Bye, bye Perth. Once again.

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It’s inevitable, I guess. How a gesture of impulsiveness, that inadvertent revelation into the inner sanctum of your mind, your darkest, most private thoughts, bold, brave, open, naked, carelessly honest words, in complete abandonment of caution and consideration of consequences, can amplify in gravity with the tiniest passages of time. And bring back with merciless force all that you’ve tried so hard to forget over the years.