map

Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.

 

inversely stack shaped (take two)

An old one, but a favourite. And I’m feeling a little old today.

~

old-photos-089

I always thought
I could stack up my regrets
and one day

I’d dig out that really helpful ‘ten steps to freaking whatever’ instruction manual

and while holding it in one hand
kick the stack over

into the wind.

What a gorgeous day…
this self sufficiency shit really works.

But that’s my parallel universe.

I so love it there.

I ponder it
from the bottom of this deep hole my regrets
have¬†dug…

 

a little hungover WordPress?

 

 

First day of the year.

Evaluating movement through life’s substance. (Or is it residue?)

Remember when you told me Vaseline was made from gasoline, and here, have some for the healing…

Remember how we wanted that clown for the party?
Me neither.

(I tried to publish this three times and WP didn’t save it for some reason. Hence the title ūüôā …I thought it was just me. Maybe it is…)

origamied

The words of sages

supposedly wise supposedly.

 

Ancient repackaged as new.

 

The air choking with nuances amiss and/or askew,

complacencing my view.

 

The forest floor

thickening under my feet

as I run. (Is this running?

maybe walking. maybe crawling.

maybe breathlessly clawing.)

 

The impact

folding me in

until I’m sure I can’t be folded

any more.

Cutting in all those places

I don’t want to be cut.

Of course.

 

Living in hope

of being taken out of this drawer

and being in the understanding.

in the unfolding…

come sit with me dear friend

sam_0731

“They¬†I said it wouldn’t happen again,

this flooding”

a sight not to be seen for another __ years.

“My ears filling with expert voices

trapping the scurrying feelings

insecting in the inescaping

infecting the elucidating”

nourishing the swell

between us –

your eyes telling me

under the indiscriminate trees.

Which are as beautiful within the flood as without.

smiling in the sudden illumination…

(self) juxtaposification

5

Rolled up in macabre
you loved/hated your web.

The self binding sinews
unknowingly degraded
by the light you exude.

You persevere…

ecstatically wallowing
frantically  swallowing,
but betrayed…

undarkness regurgitated.

Your blindness!
to the following
of heliotropic hearts…

 

Photo credit: Gilbert Hansen

hikikomori

I had the most interesting conversation with a dear, elderly friend recently. Every time I do, it makes me lament even more how our culture doesn’t value the wisdom of the elderly. There are times when I truly grieve over stories lost forever.

We talked about the fear of man…

the fear of God…

the misunderstanding of the fear of God and how radically it is exacerbated by the growing fear of other humans, the context being, that we believe humans were created in God’s image.

The astonishing kindness of anonymous bloggers, their anonymity injecting poignancy straight into my veins.

I told him about the phenomenon of hikikomori which fascinated him, but he immediately responded with words straight from his mature, listening heart, ‘no wonder people are afraid of God. We are forever doomed to create him in our image…’ or something to that affect. Ugh, my awful memory does not do him justice.

And this post does not do this issue justice. but I want to get in the habit of writing more regularly so this will have to do for now.

 

What does this c(h)ord do?

I didn’t even realise until my grandfather’s funeral. The first funeral of someone close to me. That so much of the time we just aren’t paying attention.

So we watched him being lowered into the ground.
It’s overwhelming isn’t it? That kind of grief.
And now you are hearing and seeing things you never heard before.
Right when you think the world should stop.

Now thanks to this artist I love, releasing this album at this time because of the loss of his child, I time travelled right back to that graveside. And all the other gravesides.

I have been to many funerals. My husband is a pastor. I have had the indescribable privilege of being at a few death beds. There is so much that I could write about. But there are already many words. And this trailer expresses some of it just perfectly.

 

Post Vocalic Stress Disorder

lake bonney

Disorders. We all have them. One of mine is that I am an Australian married to an American. I kid you not. The exact nature of this disorder is a conversation for another time.

So¬†we met at the seminary he was attending a few (cough) 20+ years ago,¬†and what¬†ensued were years of discussing the ‘problem’ Australians have with pronouncing post vocalic ‘Rs’.¬†To say we are still in pretty intense negotiations over this, well…

But it seems, the whole world is suffering from PTSD.
And yet, we continue discussing things that don’t matter quite as much… like PVSD. (Especially because we know I’m right about PVSD…)

So really, Basil, my blog instigator, is about balance. Or, at least, one of the things he is about.