1989

It was murder and negation. I was refusing to dive into the ocean of my life, to really feel it. And Why did I not see that at the time? Because I already had but a tenuous connection to my emotions. I was absent. So it was easy to make the choice not to live, not to feel life. So easy to refuse to be woken up and become present.
One thinks one has no choice, but everything is a choice: every movement, every moment of inactivity, every thought. Every No, every Yes. Every pawn has a place in the battle, it's not just the queen that matters.

So I made the choice not to live, I chose to avoid life, to avoid emotion, to avoid reproduction and everything that goes with being a parent and a co-parent. I chose the selfishness of avoidance. As if it was my decision to make! I thought an abortion was an experience. It was not. It was a denial of experience. It was in both ways, for the child and for me, a negation of life.

And where did it get me? Absolutely no where except further inside the hole inside my own mind. Negation of life, negation of experience, avoidance of pain, when so much learning comes through pain. Avoidance of love and joy and trust and growth, of a shared life.

And do I regret it? No. It is impossible to regret. One is what one is through the habit of living. I can only apologize...

Melbourne Monday

One thing about cities is the flooding multitude of stories being written and rewritten one over the top of another. Some stories get completely obliterated, some remain despite their irrelevance. Despite being totally ridiculous some remain because of how they appear. The mosaic of time and culture is what makes cities (potentially) so exciting.

Carlton Cemetry, Lygon St.

Craigieburn Grasslands

(I'm searching for a way to make life in this chaos bearable!)

The Melbourne sunset is that interesting orange colour because the air is so thick with smog, I think, sitting in my car in peak hour traffic.
I've been here nearly 24 hours. Gosh I miss Albany!

This Remarkable New World is Good

It tears at me each time I go

forced to leave pieces of this new place behind. But each time I leave it’s bigger in me, surer,

the World shown me, in me. I'm surprised

I didn't notice it before, it's so good. I suppose because it fits so neatly into this one, underneath

shells and tied to lamp-posts

And each well-scripted line

surprised I did not find it,

When these tunes make its transluscent space.

You can tell the world I was good; second, that I left a small place open for you.

Before I sleep show me. Farewell.

Show me the World is really good.

I leave something of this newly created thing on your window ledge. The smell of honey.

I long for you until the sun goes down or until I find something to occupy myself, and then I am no longer inside you. Free of you like fish are free of the shore.

Today the season’s first finally ripe Ballardia, pink taste in my mouth.

Some time later the astringency.

He rises fresh and dripping, magically opposed to death.

He sinks and I am left alone on the surface, looking all around me in confusion.

Christ smells miraculously fresh.

This is where you do not notice decayed flesh. I have ridden high on open time

Plateau after overwhelming crisis

Where it was impossible to go forward into the maw of defeat

And retreat was certain failure.

The general gathered strength by turning inward and finding hope, repose.

I look forward to you and then I do not mind.

Now I have turned around and I am not so covered up,

not so earthed.

Something blooms. I'll only do this one last time. And once again perhaps. I lived

so deep I almost don’t feel this pain of forgetting.

This is my tears without leaving anything out.

(I forget I'll feel the pain.)

I lived so deeply inside your tunnels. The bright night swims down to me bursts like fish upon the net.

Ah! Bright night swim to me!

I leave you my tears.

A perfect shape.

It fits me so much cleaner this time.
And then more mature, and then fruitful.
I ripen alone, forced to leave, forced to fruit

As if the only strength I have is to oblige.
Can continue to do so but this would be the last time I stop. I am healed.

...leave something.
I lean towards you until sunset.

It rips me each time I tear away from you, I leave something of this newly created world behind again. I don't want to feel this pain, I'll do it only this one last time. Then again, and just one more time. And maybe once more. My skin is raw.

Today the very first ripened Ballardia of the season, a pink taste in my mouth. Some time later astringency at the back.

...I leave something of this newly created thing on your shirt. I long for you until the sun goes down or until I find something to preoccupy me, and I am no longer inside you. Free of you like fish are free of the shore.

I forget that I am going to feel this pain because I lived so deeply inside your tunnels. The bright night swims down to me, I burst like a fish into the rocks beachside.

I burst like a fish into the rocky shore, tearing across a plateau, on my way back to the ocean. Forget I ever said this? It is there, it is here, it is in a bowl at the back of the fridge.

Jesus rises fresh and dripping still magically opposed to death, as if it makes things any easier.

Jesus sinks and I am left alone on the surface, looking all around me in confusion.

I'm ripped open each time I leave you.

The stiches rip the skin around the wound.

Stitches rip out of the skin of my wound each time I leave you. I cannot keep doing this, this is the final time I'm going. Then once more, then once more and then one last time. By then I'll be healed.

the world you showed me is really perfectly a reflection. I'm suprised that I didn't notice it earlier, I think becauseit fits so neatly into this one, just there between the cracks and under the line

Becalmed

Paintings circa 1995.