The funny thing about feeling you're on the outside is how much you long to be back there.
Although we moved out of the house I grew up in when I was 16, most of my dreams took place there for at least a decade afterwards. We'd be in the kitchen, or the big garden that hugged the back and side of the house, an adventure ground of flower beds, curved walkways, the little pond, and the lawn where we'd play football around mum's daffodils.
Still now, nearly another decade later, my dreams are very often populated by my two brothers and my sister, and sometimes my parents, even though I've lived in another country to all of them for a good while . My unconscious is clearly very busy with them. There, we're still a little crew, negotiating often-tricky situations together.
In my waking life, thinking back to the years together in that house is one of the surest routes to a wave of nostalgia so heavy it atually hurts. If i let mysef give in to it, my chest gets sucked down to the pit of my stomach, a crushing feeling of something being ripped away. My throat closes in, and the energy saps out of me. I wish I could go back to being our little unit, the four gang members held together by the attention of our parents.
The thing is, though, when I see them today, I don't know how to be. I frequently become silent and awkward, stiffening up when asked a question, answering monosyllabically with an air of annoyance. I'm somehow unable to open up, caught in an illogical bind of being convinced they don't really care, while at the same time uncomfortable that they're so interested, as if opening up would be too risky, too vulnerable. I don't want to play that board-game, I don't want any wine thanks, I don't mind what we eat, there's nothing in particular I want to do, except maybe go for a run by myself. I seem to try to negate any needs I might have, to negate my presence. Don't worry, I'll be gone soon.
It takes me a while to relax into beng with them, if i get there at all.
Nostalgia is surely directly proportional to how much you can manage to let yourself in to the fullness of the present moment, and to connect with the people and things around you. I'm not so good at being close to the people around me.
Even as a kid, where the longing directs itself, I spent large amounts of time searching out spaces of my own, hiding in the attic with intricate jigsaw puzzles and my dad's anatomy books, reading alone in the room at the end of the house curled up in a ball in an armchair, or suddenly wandering off down the garden in the middle of a game of football or cricket with my brothers. I kept on trying to be separate. And yet the thought of the childhood years brings on its first taste the warm glow of being a close crew.
The idea of being really connected is wonderful when I locate it in the past, but in the present tense it makes me nervous. Whenever I leave my family after a visit, I invariably feel incredibly sad that I'm not with them, even though while there I spend a lot of time feeling on the outside, and hurt and annoyed that they're putting me there. I've done enough therapy to know that I put myself on the outside all by myself, and finally, finally, it might have got through to my scared little brain that I am not being rejected, and that they do actually want me there.
Sometimes feeling accepted is almost more painful than being on the outside. A fullness, a relief, an intensity I'm not used to. Nostalgia is so comfortable in comparison. A longing for connection, love, acceptance, whatever, without any of the dangers that could actually come from those things. I'll probably always need to retreat and be alone, but I'm trying to join in. I want to be part of it.
Station
Friday, August 31, 2018
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
The Brown Leather Sofa
It began
with carrying a dark brown leather sofa up to the third floor, one Sunday
morning in spring, 2012. I’d found it right outside my flat, and my two
flatmates didn’t mind, and even helped me carry it up. In Berlin, seeing
furniture left out on the street is a daily occurrence, as is seeing an
impressive array of it being transported by foot or bike. I’ve seen a man
carrying a bed frame across the huge park that used to be the city airport, and
people cycling while balancing bookcases, chairs, lamps, and alarmingly large
suitcases.
Of course,
most people have carried furniture through the streets at some point, marking
the phase when you don’t have enough money or stuff to warrant paying someone
with a van. As a Ph.D. student, I’d wheeled a blue sofa through Cambridge, but
that was when I was living in University accommodation, and nothing was
permanent. Perhaps that should have been over by my late-20s, but after moving
countries, I found myself doing the same thing again. When I first arrived in
Berlin in the fall of 2010, I came with just a suitcase and a big backpack. It
was only when I lugged the brown sofa up the stairs that I finally started an
uncertain momentum towards a fragile sense of belonging.
I’m looking
at the sofa now, crumpled creases shining in the late-afternoon light as I sit
in a black leather and metal chair that one of those flatmates didn’t want anymore.
We all moved out in the summer, and I managed to get a lease on my own place for
the first time. I’m not sure where he is now, but the chair squats low and
wide, with narrow armrests, and is possibly quite ugly, but it’s half-covered
in a blanket. That came from a bodywork studio I worked in here a few years ago,
and is one of the ones we covered clients with when they’d rest after sessions.
I wonder if it’s creepy to have brought the blanket home after we closed that
studio, but it’s a lovely, soft, blueish green.
I had come
to Berlin for a one-year history research position, but then made the leap of
beginning a course in somatic therapy. The training lasted almost four years,
during which I slowly set myself up, working with people on their anxieties and
stresses. It’s a fulfilling job once they find their way to me, but
establishing your own client-based business in a new city as a fairly
introverted and not very business-savvy person is a mammoth task. I joined the
ranks of the precarious freelancers and part-timers that fill Berlin.
It’s never
been clear how long I was going to stay here. Berlin is full of people finding
their own paths and doing things differently, and I guess I was the same.
There’s another chair opposite me, a strange construction that would probably
identify itself as a desk chair, but is actually much too uncomfortable to sit
on for very long. It came from a feminist NGO that I volunteered with here for
a year. I’m not surprised they wanted rid of it; the NGO operated with a flat
democratic structure, which involved hours of discussions, fueled by crisps and
chocolate, and tinged with frustration and passive aggression, and for that you
really need comfortable chairs. It’s quite striking, its pale, wicker-effect
back panel framed in black wood with rounded edges, but it doesn’t really fit next
to the table.
With its thin,
spindly legs and deep red wood, the table is not robust enough to feel like a desk,
but is too narrow for a dining table. It came from one of the flea markets here
that are jammed full of people on Sundays. In my early years, I developed a
fetish for the delicate, old teacups that I found there, and now have a proud
collection of azure blue, poppy red, grass green and lemon yellow, each one
patterned with gold. They make a delightful way to drink the morning espresso
that I transferred to from my English filter coffee.
As I
gradually collected objects, I didn’t imagine I’d leave, but then I didn’t
imagine far ahead at all, even though the few friends I made in my first years
kept leaving. To my left, now, is the red chest of drawers that used to belong
to a friend from my research institute before he moved away. After the fourth
friend packed up, I started to feel more wary about who I’d become close to, but
you never really know. People try things out here.
On my right
side is a huge white bookcase that made its way here via another freelancer friend,
who stayed at my flat for nine months while contemplating where he’d like to
live, and while I tried out living in a communal house with my then-girlfriend.
When that all ended and I came back, I got the bookcase. It’s the kind that
no-one would actually find pleasing to look at, but which holds so much stuff that
it can mostly get away unnoticed. The house was one of Berlin’s “project houses”,
effectively collectively owned by the sixty-odd people who lived in it, who made
all of the decisions about it together. Like the NGO, this involved long
discussions, inside and outside of meetings. There was always a conflict or
problem to be picked apart, and most people seemed to exist within a blend of feeling
tired and annoyed, but resolved to carry on.
I’ve been
determined about something during my time in Berlin, pressing ahead as if I
needed to prove something. I’m not really cut out for freelance life, but I
stubbornly pushed forwards, focused on keeping my head above water. I tried
immersing myself in a football team and a touch rugby team, I explored the
queer scene, and I dived into the world of spoken word, finding my feet and my
voice on stage. Whatever I did, it came with a kind of urgency, as if I needed
to find my place. I’m an expert at feeling like I’m not quite good enough, and
don’t quite belong, and as though I need to try very hard to keep everything
together.
Looking
back at all this feels like having stepped off a football pitch after the end
of a tough game. Sometimes after a match, I can’t really remember what happened
at all. I’ve been so focused on running, on watching the ball and people’s
movements, and anticipating where they will go next, and afterwards it all
seems like one big blur. Except that I’m still here, on the pitch, looking
around at the jumbled furniture that has clustered around me. By now, I don’t
feel so much like I need to prove anything. I feel comfortable. I do fit in.
Now that I’ve realized those things, I’m free to leave.
As I sit in
my flat, I’m surrounded by my little world of familiar objects, but they make a
strange mixture. It’s the first time I’ve owned all of the objects in a place,
but they seem as if they’ve blown in with the wind. The sofa was the start of my
first attempt at my own home, and I am thankful for it, but I’ll finally be
leaving Berlin soon, and I’ll probably leave all of it for some other people to
collect on their journeys. I’ll just be taking my colorful teacups, and making
a different attempt at belonging.
Thursday, July 19, 2018
One night in June
Rosie was sitting in the candle light
Watching the flames in her glass of wine
As curving lines mix dark and shine,
And the world comes rushing in.
Rosie was waiting in a bar for some friends
All she wanted was to have a little laugh for a change
Or for somebody to stop and ask how she's been --
If things have got any better. Some
Days it's hard just to leave the house
And go to a job where too many people
Too many eyes talk back when you meet them
Stare at a screen for a task too simple
Can't keep your mind on track, play it back to
There in meeting, everybody speaking
Larger than life, and you, busy thinking
How can make sure you don't look stupid
Don't get me started
Don't get me started
I won't know how to stop
Now Rosie's friends were sat in corner
She's at the bar, getting ready to order
Drinks in a list, say it through and repeat it
Money in her hand, hold tight
But what happened next she could hardly believe it
Freezing chest locks down isn't breathing
Suddenly she swore she heard her name
Didn't even think just turned her head, and
Eyes caught glancing towards her
Furtive laughter ripples like water
Ears blocked, can't feel the floor now
Always knew that they didn't really like her
Drinks come, slowly walking,
Sits in silence, friends all talking
Happy to see her but all she sees is
How can she make sure she won't look stupid
Don't get me started
Don't get me started
I won't know how to stop
Friday, June 29, 2018
The Canal Bridge
There's a funny quality to the air on a sunny, cold winter's day. Something about the paleness. Or the way your skin slices through it, the way it encases you and keeps you distinct.
Jack paused at the bridge over the canal. It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but that his legs slowly ceased to move. Sometimes it felt like being a swing that keeps getting pushed from behind, sending it up high, and plunging back down, again and again. And then the pushing would stop and the swing slowly used up its momentum, and gradually came to a stand still.
Jack didn't know where the pushing came from, but it was usually there. When it stopped, he supposed he should feel relief, but mostly he just felt lost.
This short, wide bridge is full of people sitting around in groups on the cobble stones in the summer, occasionally making way for a car or a bike. But now it was nearly empty, and Jack stood looking along the canal.
Maybe it was because of the water. Isn't air always different next to bodies of water? Jack wasn't sure, but there was something peculiar about the air, as if it was peeling away like the bark of an old birch tree, and cracking like the oil of an old painting. It seemed to be pulling him in to its fissures, and as part of him hovered up there, his shoulders dropped a little.
Years ago, he'd walked across the bridge with someone else. Jack hadn't known much about F., but that didn't matter. F. was enthusiastic about life, and seemed to delight in Jack's way of being alive, which Jack carefully presented to best effect. They had gone to a bar further down the bank and talked enthusiastically, drinking the same drink, smoking the same cigarettes. It can be so easy to get someone to like you. But it never really gave the kind of satisfaction Jack was after. The kind where you can relax into the air like a huge rocking chair that will softly push you upright whenever you need it. The only time Jack had sat in a rocking chair was at his grandma's house as a kid, but they hadn't visited very often, and he had been suspicious of it.
The trouble with making someone like you, Jack thought, hovering in the cracks in the air above the canal bridge, is that it's never enough. You can never believe it, because you've created it. But you can't risk what would happen if you would stop trying. Until you get too tired, but then it's usually too late.
Back then, it had been autumn. Jack remembered the leaves, and the air had been a bit denser than it was now. The days must have been shortening already, because Jack remembered the candles in the bar.
In the opposite direction along the canal, there had been summer. Where the wide grass bank sloped up from the water, Jack had sat with C. and a bunch of other people on blankets. The slope had been full of clusters mingling into the gentle dusk. Had it been a birthday of one of C.'s friends, or some kind of celebration? Either way, they were in a large group with pizza, and wine in plastic cups. C. was often in large groups of people, and Jack went along.
It's harder to know what to do in large groups, Jack thought, still drifting in the air. There are too many separate variables to monitor simultaneously. How can you know what effect your words and actions will have on multiple agents, many of whom are only partially familiar? This is a difficult situation to keep in control, and Jack would often retreat into silent observation.
The tricky thing about silent observation is the vague tinge of boredom and resentment at not being part of the group and its mood and jokes, even while rejecting them. Jack called it shyness, and C. was very understanding.
C. liked making plans and filling the time, and following causes that really mattered, because the world is full of things that are unjust, that can burn like a fire inside, and you are responsible to make them better, and make sure you live up to what you've committed to doing about it and what others expect, otherwise you'll disappoint them or yourself or -- you're not sure but it's important that you keep trying and pushing, even if you don't want to. Jack followed the plans, and made the causes important, because Jack was responsible for making sure C. was never disappointed.
The trouble with being responsible for someone else's emotions, Jack thought four feet above himself, looking at the grassy slope, is that it's a lot of pressure. And it never becomes less, because even when you manage to prevent the disappointment, the threat of it never goes away.
Jack felt tired. Floating in the air like this seemed to make everything appear in flat layers that made him slightly dizzy. Jack came back down into himself, and noticed he'd been leaning heavily on the thin iron railing, and his forearms were sore. Looking around, he rubbed them through his thick coat, and started walking home.
Jack paused at the bridge over the canal. It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but that his legs slowly ceased to move. Sometimes it felt like being a swing that keeps getting pushed from behind, sending it up high, and plunging back down, again and again. And then the pushing would stop and the swing slowly used up its momentum, and gradually came to a stand still.
Jack didn't know where the pushing came from, but it was usually there. When it stopped, he supposed he should feel relief, but mostly he just felt lost.
This short, wide bridge is full of people sitting around in groups on the cobble stones in the summer, occasionally making way for a car or a bike. But now it was nearly empty, and Jack stood looking along the canal.
Maybe it was because of the water. Isn't air always different next to bodies of water? Jack wasn't sure, but there was something peculiar about the air, as if it was peeling away like the bark of an old birch tree, and cracking like the oil of an old painting. It seemed to be pulling him in to its fissures, and as part of him hovered up there, his shoulders dropped a little.
Years ago, he'd walked across the bridge with someone else. Jack hadn't known much about F., but that didn't matter. F. was enthusiastic about life, and seemed to delight in Jack's way of being alive, which Jack carefully presented to best effect. They had gone to a bar further down the bank and talked enthusiastically, drinking the same drink, smoking the same cigarettes. It can be so easy to get someone to like you. But it never really gave the kind of satisfaction Jack was after. The kind where you can relax into the air like a huge rocking chair that will softly push you upright whenever you need it. The only time Jack had sat in a rocking chair was at his grandma's house as a kid, but they hadn't visited very often, and he had been suspicious of it.
The trouble with making someone like you, Jack thought, hovering in the cracks in the air above the canal bridge, is that it's never enough. You can never believe it, because you've created it. But you can't risk what would happen if you would stop trying. Until you get too tired, but then it's usually too late.
Back then, it had been autumn. Jack remembered the leaves, and the air had been a bit denser than it was now. The days must have been shortening already, because Jack remembered the candles in the bar.
In the opposite direction along the canal, there had been summer. Where the wide grass bank sloped up from the water, Jack had sat with C. and a bunch of other people on blankets. The slope had been full of clusters mingling into the gentle dusk. Had it been a birthday of one of C.'s friends, or some kind of celebration? Either way, they were in a large group with pizza, and wine in plastic cups. C. was often in large groups of people, and Jack went along.
It's harder to know what to do in large groups, Jack thought, still drifting in the air. There are too many separate variables to monitor simultaneously. How can you know what effect your words and actions will have on multiple agents, many of whom are only partially familiar? This is a difficult situation to keep in control, and Jack would often retreat into silent observation.
The tricky thing about silent observation is the vague tinge of boredom and resentment at not being part of the group and its mood and jokes, even while rejecting them. Jack called it shyness, and C. was very understanding.
C. liked making plans and filling the time, and following causes that really mattered, because the world is full of things that are unjust, that can burn like a fire inside, and you are responsible to make them better, and make sure you live up to what you've committed to doing about it and what others expect, otherwise you'll disappoint them or yourself or -- you're not sure but it's important that you keep trying and pushing, even if you don't want to. Jack followed the plans, and made the causes important, because Jack was responsible for making sure C. was never disappointed.
The trouble with being responsible for someone else's emotions, Jack thought four feet above himself, looking at the grassy slope, is that it's a lot of pressure. And it never becomes less, because even when you manage to prevent the disappointment, the threat of it never goes away.
Jack felt tired. Floating in the air like this seemed to make everything appear in flat layers that made him slightly dizzy. Jack came back down into himself, and noticed he'd been leaning heavily on the thin iron railing, and his forearms were sore. Looking around, he rubbed them through his thick coat, and started walking home.
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Sally-Ann
Precious vase
as old as you on your death bed
smashed to shards
for a lifetime
it was
On a warm day Sally-Ann's skin didn't seem so much like an edge. Thick air that you swim through, and her insides seemed to slide out of sloppy pores. How do you keep yourself in?
Life of shards
shaken you
could only hold so many at once
not sure how to combine
each day
As Sally-Ann entered the room she saw -- all of them saw the light bend and land -- flecks of light scatter across the floor, the walls, as if it fractured from a crystal but they didn't know that. Each of them saw only one point.
Fragments past
caught in glimpses in between
sometimes too sharp
but you don't let go
on purpose
Now Sally-Ann was walking as slowly as she could bring herself to across a great expanse of grass, where the old airport used to be in the middle of Berlin. She watched her knees appear and fall, her feet make heel and toe on ground, and how the blades disappeared under them. She looked at the sky -- so much sky -- more than her usual routes through the city would permit. So big that at times, her feet and eyes were miles apart, and in the space between she saw a series of people and hopes stacked one on top of the other, all of them her. Saw herself half her size, clutching at the bottoms of skirts for safety, not quite able to look up at the faces. Saw the faces too late, and confusion, and empty hands. As she watched she was trying not to feel disappointed.
Flashes first
take on new light as you find them
each time you look back
not quite the same
now and then
When Sally-Ann talked she watched the other person intensely. When the other person talked she heard shapes, and shifted herself to match without even moving the air. The new people seemed like new maps of home, all sitting around a dark wooden table in the corner of the bar, playing the music she'd listened to fifteen years ago. As she watched Sally-Ann said to herself that it was a relief to finally be able to express more of her real self.
Torn apart
searching you
wish for one whole image
never seen
and will always change
Sometimes you can pull yourself inside your own skin. Sally-Ann took a small step back but didn't want anyone else to notice -- which they did -- and so she did it only with her attention. Now she was stood fifty centimeters behind her own head and slightly to the left. Sally-Ann had a habit of looking at the neatly structured patterns of corners and edges. She had discovered that this made the air seem more solid, a layer separating her from the people. She wasn't sure if they were really her people. She didn't know what to say.
Precious vase
stands in final resting place
patterns and shape revealed in all their glory
at the moment you cease
to comprehend
Once, Sally-Ann had been a giant whale. The water had pushed her up even when she wasn't looking, and it only took a soft impulse to arc and glide and drift, somehow fast and incredibly slow at the same time. The whale wasn't particularly concerned about what other creatures would do. It operated at a different scale, a different speed.
as old as you on your death bed
smashed to shards
for a lifetime
it was
On a warm day Sally-Ann's skin didn't seem so much like an edge. Thick air that you swim through, and her insides seemed to slide out of sloppy pores. How do you keep yourself in?
Life of shards
shaken you
could only hold so many at once
not sure how to combine
each day
As Sally-Ann entered the room she saw -- all of them saw the light bend and land -- flecks of light scatter across the floor, the walls, as if it fractured from a crystal but they didn't know that. Each of them saw only one point.
Fragments past
caught in glimpses in between
sometimes too sharp
but you don't let go
on purpose
Now Sally-Ann was walking as slowly as she could bring herself to across a great expanse of grass, where the old airport used to be in the middle of Berlin. She watched her knees appear and fall, her feet make heel and toe on ground, and how the blades disappeared under them. She looked at the sky -- so much sky -- more than her usual routes through the city would permit. So big that at times, her feet and eyes were miles apart, and in the space between she saw a series of people and hopes stacked one on top of the other, all of them her. Saw herself half her size, clutching at the bottoms of skirts for safety, not quite able to look up at the faces. Saw the faces too late, and confusion, and empty hands. As she watched she was trying not to feel disappointed.
Flashes first
take on new light as you find them
each time you look back
not quite the same
now and then
When Sally-Ann talked she watched the other person intensely. When the other person talked she heard shapes, and shifted herself to match without even moving the air. The new people seemed like new maps of home, all sitting around a dark wooden table in the corner of the bar, playing the music she'd listened to fifteen years ago. As she watched Sally-Ann said to herself that it was a relief to finally be able to express more of her real self.
Torn apart
searching you
wish for one whole image
never seen
and will always change
Sometimes you can pull yourself inside your own skin. Sally-Ann took a small step back but didn't want anyone else to notice -- which they did -- and so she did it only with her attention. Now she was stood fifty centimeters behind her own head and slightly to the left. Sally-Ann had a habit of looking at the neatly structured patterns of corners and edges. She had discovered that this made the air seem more solid, a layer separating her from the people. She wasn't sure if they were really her people. She didn't know what to say.
Precious vase
stands in final resting place
patterns and shape revealed in all their glory
at the moment you cease
to comprehend
Once, Sally-Ann had been a giant whale. The water had pushed her up even when she wasn't looking, and it only took a soft impulse to arc and glide and drift, somehow fast and incredibly slow at the same time. The whale wasn't particularly concerned about what other creatures would do. It operated at a different scale, a different speed.
Thursday, April 05, 2018
clean
part 1.
there's a puddle on the ground
right across the path
i'm wearing my best wellington boots
but it's too muddy and murky to see the bottom
it looks too deep to go through
i'll go around
tip toe on grass
there's barely a gap to the edge of the canal
no hand rail, a sharp drop down
a knife edged moment of concentrate
my brother's still talking
leaves words in the air
the others are lagging behind
back there
my feet are squelching
hands are wet
a bubble of focus
doesn't want to fall
and i'm thinking how something uncomfortable
is happening because of a dirt track
that hasn't been covered in tarmac
let's puddles spread in its hollows and dips
and land in my body's sensory
when i walk in the street
it's much more clean
i barely notice a thing
part 2.
the tables are shrinking
under the weight
of all the scattered glasses and plates
and handbags placed
not far from reach
as crumbs and pepper
pot crowd in
on one, a wine glass sits
collecting the light to itself
funnels it up and down its stem
fractures and bends
above and below
the light of a whole room
in one glass
it's all you can look at
the table is dull beneath
at a loss for what to do
it's not quite steady
rocks in seesaw
as elbows shift
in conversation
and i'm thinking how all this
is distracting me from my
previous thoughts
how it irritates
and yet if it were to be clean
it would be empty
no life to be seen
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
shoulder maze again
woman walks across the street,
feels presence of eyes that would meet
her gaze if only she'd lift it up
shoulders shift in bumpy maze
her feet don't touch the ground today
she's lost in thought circles of
trails in sand, stranded threads
crossing, crossing, endlessly
deserts made of rolling dunes
where every grain touches many more
but wherever you stand
you're hidden from view
I've seen you before
we've never met
but I've been breathing your air
wearing your frown
side-stepping and looking down
I've held your money at the bakery
drunk from the same glass as you
your favorite bar, I've sat in your chair
borrowed your lighter, held open the door
pocket stones again
my pockets are all full of stones
catch on fingers fumbling round
fragments broken from age-old cliffs
pebbled weights that hold me down
sometimes I spread them out on the ground
stones like stars brought out to shine
stand there looking for joining lines
a thread to stitch some meaning in
my pockets are all full of stones
the only people I’ve ever known
all these people have been wearing my name
there’s more of us in here than I can count
there’s a fork in my tongue, a great crossroads
there’s barbed wire stuffed inside our mouth
there’s photos and scars but they’re waterproof
all surface and nothing left behind
I’m not sure what they’d have said back then
like a taste that’s hard to identify
swirl it in my mouth like an ageing wine
til all I’ve got is the urge to swallow it down.
I’ve shed my skin, I’ve bled them out
I’ve been slowly replacing all of my cells
I don’t know them and they don’t know me
and yet they’re all I’ve ever been
I thought I’d turned my back on you
I’ve been red-orange-yellow-green-two-toned-blue
I thought I’d made myself anew
but there’s traces stuck like hardened glue
running between my muscles and bones
and I don’t know if I should shake them loose
or if they’re what’s been holding me through
my pockets are all full of stones
pebbled weights that hold me down
I stand there looking for joining lines
but my thread is bare and I cannot sew
precious vase
precious vase
as old as you on your death bed
smashed to shards
for a lifetime
it was
precious vase
stands in final resting place
size and patterns and shape revealed in all their glory
at the moment you cease
to comprehend
life of shards
fragments you
can only hold so many at once in hand
not sure how to combine
each day
life of shards
caught in glimpses in between
each time you look to memories
not quite the same
now back then
fragments past
take on new light as you find them
sometimes too sharp but you
don’t let go
on purpose
fragments fast
forgotten in the blink of an eye
who are were could you be if not your self
selves split solve salvation
tears apart
glimpses between
searching you wish for one whole image
never seen
and will always change
glimpses between
are more than enough if the mirror is clean
but none of ours are
and you’ll always try
but never know
still nothing again
tree tops bare in quiet sway meet
slanted rays of wintry sun pale fingers
reach through patchy cloud
slip your eyes over miles and miles
sounds come wrapped in tin foil
thinned by so much empty space
land like hollow prickles on ears
Danny said: I’ve gazed right into nothingness, and all it is
is nothing less than a long sigh of relief
I’ve tried and tried to prove myself
you won’t believe all I’ve achieved
I’ve tried to show I’m worth the salt
on anybody’s table, and only after so many years am I finally able
to see that all my precious salt isn’t worth anything at all
Andy said: this seems like a wonderful place to sit for a while
the morning sun has poured into the long grains of this bench’s wood
melting scores of moments where other people stood and sat
a pew to silent memories that we can almost touch
Danny said: I’m everything and nothing, simultaneously
all that I touch will disappear, including both of us
we’ve already lost our entire lives, faded out of reach
remember when we climbed the great apple tree?
planks of wood, and hammer and nails in hand
grand plans of what we’d make, and never
the concept that we’d failed when it took a different turn
all those moments are already gone
Andy said: sometimes I think that wood can breathe
have you ever laid on the forest floor and watched
the trunks of tall pine trees sway to and fro
look at the way the light catches the needles like tongues
of fire, as if the whole tree might go up in flames
Danny said: I’m not afraid of nothingness. I know
I need to slow down and rest, leave more time to digest
the days and days, stop trying so hard to grip onto
things that will only last a fraction of the sun
Andy said: sometimes I like to face backwards on the train
to watch the land and sky and everything between suddenly
appear in the window, hang there like lamps gently swaying
and gradually shrink and fade, so you don’t even notice
the moment when they’re no longer there
Danny said: there’s a great emptiness that sits inside
a lake that reaches far beyond what my skin could hold
whenever I stop for long enough to hear the way
I breathe, there’s a loneliness I cannot bear,
there’s loss and loss, and endings and lack, there’s sorrow for
what never was and what will never come back
Andi said: when all is quiet, the quietness grows and fills the sky
as if your eyes could reach way up there, brush
the tops of the trees and spires, as if your feet
follow and settle on the brow of the farthest hill
your eyes can pick out, and the space between
is empty and full, and you’re here and there
in ploughed up soil and asphalt street
cracks in the air
on the canal bridge you see cracks in the air
that peel away like the bark of an old tree
or the oil of a dried-out painting
and when you stop to stare they pull you in,
knock the wind right out your sails
pulling teeth like pulling nails
sting in your eyes like rings of salt
pulling teeth like pulling nails
sting in your eyes like rings of salt
when they come, they come silently
slices of time that slowly bleed into
slices of time that slowly bleed into
your present tense, like
water drawn up from a well
that slowly drips back down again,
and round and round the bucket goes,
water pouring from the holes
water drawn up from a well
that slowly drips back down again,
and round and round the bucket goes,
water pouring from the holes
if you want you can call them memories
cracks in the air that freeze and thaw
cracks in the air that freeze and thaw
and buckets falling in the breeze
and you end up saying what you did back then
you’ve thought this before, haven’t you?
did you turn a leaf, a page, a few,
or are you turning round but standing still?
and lurking at the bottom of the well,
the thing that tugs on heart strings
that keeps you moving half-pinned
that drives your unconscious thought,
is not what could happen to you,
the thing that tugs on heart strings
that keeps you moving half-pinned
that drives your unconscious thought,
is not what could happen to you,
it's what's already been
but you never were enough back then,
and you’ll never make time undone
and still you expect the past
to happen next
aftermath again
I cannot speak
I cannot mouth the words
cannot fit to you now, after
the mean face of sleep, when
a fierce slap of daylight fights back
the echoes of the night, where
drums could beat a heart to fright
the bate to catch a mouth to choke
to squeeze around a bruised throat
to tighten breath to stop a chest
I cannot keep it in
I cannot be where
I want to be
I cannot want you
to wear yourself down
you cannot see me
like this
I cannot look at you
not knowing when the sudden flash
of hands face too fast heart rate locked in place
I cannot feel
you cannot know
the numbness down here
until it snaps
you cannot leave me
like this
leave me
alone
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