Archive for the 'Nonfiction' Category

Need New Socks

Coughing up my creativity tonight, I feel pulled between places where my heart lies. Drawn to my music into a world of UTAS, paperwork in the pillions piles in my brain, always the nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something, some sheet I didn’t sign, some unit code written incorrectly. Caught up in the confusion of conclusive cadences and not understanding why anyone but musical archaeologists would want to know about figured bass, I now and then forget the feeling rising up like the gorge in my throat to overwhelm me, that painfully good feeling that the music gives me, soles of my feet telling the earth, guts rising out through my voice. Coming close to sinking, swamped in someone else’s supposedly definitive music theories, my brain swings wildly the other way. Suddenly reckless I follow my pyrate friend to the pub and laugh and drink and steal his hat, but the music’s not grabbing me. I should be studying. Boy clicks his proverbial tongue but is happy to drink with me. I love him – sometimes it feels stable.

They say the first week is hectic but I’ve been here four weeks now and am in no less of a mess. Seems my enrolment changes every three days, Scummylink are hassling me, new job, new songs, moving in two weeks, and of course I am falling behind. What a time to have made a billion new friends who want to take me out drinking. What a time to have songs pushing at me from noisy potholes in my mind. What bad timing to discover deadly beautiful new bands who want to take me out dancing. I close my eyes and my brain doesn’t know where to look – wait, have I forgotten something again? Where are my keys? I thought I had more money this morning!

Late nights always felt so good; early mornings not so much. Gotta drag myself out of bed. Bad time to be falling in love. As I said, bad time to be loving new music. More hours in the day, kplzthx! The internet is confusing, how to make it my tool but not fall into the traps. Popular opinion on MySpace changes from day to day, sometimes it’s cool and sometimes not. I find it rather like a badly put-together Lego structure. I leave and follow my nose, my eyes get me distracted though and in trouble as bookshops are dangerous places. Painful reminder, photography, bitingly beautiful books. One passion put on hold to follow another dream. So many ideas, so little iMinutes. Finally the opportunities and the intelligence are mine, but I know what I wanna do, what I wanna pay ridiculous fees to be Educated Highly on. I Do know what I wanna do. I DO know what I wanna do. I do? Married to my music, god yes I’m in love, but the last girl was less high-maintenance… Photography bites its lip and goes to sit on the shelf. I buy something that makes me feel cold, a novel on the sale table. Ten bucks for the pleasure of owning someone’s words on paper with a pretty picture on the front. Dangerous places, bookshops. Three days later I get a chance to procrastinate a little by poking into the preliminary pages, and poetry taps me on the shoulder. Fuck. It’s like telling one lover you can’t go to their kick-arse show because someone you like better wants you to pay stupid cash for learning the most boring bits about them. Writing sits next to photography, shouting obscene, inspiring things at me from the corner. More distracting than the hole in my goddamnit I need new socks.


The beauty of inappropriate semicolons.

The evening sun falls gold between the shadows of the trees.  Their elegant fingers across the grass.  If I had the arms and legs of a frog; I would cartwheel between them, dipping my hands in light, fingers tipped with shadow.  Delight… if I were a hundred metres taller; I would reach up and twirl the cotton clouds between my fingers, fingerpaint my body in cool blue.  If I were light as oil I would lay upon the surface of the seas, ripple as they rippled… I would let her touch my skin, one finger from across the world, joined by another, no words needed.  Smudge my paint.  Smear the sky across me.  Teach me how to feel the wind, and don’t ever let me forget.  I’ll teach you how to sing and how to live within your own company, until we are both messy and the colour of the sky.

Smudge my paint.


Night; we trickle in from varied paths, out of the dark into the hall. Murmurs. Laughter. We are here with a purpose; we are here to make music.

It is casual, but not without a tension, an energy. A hidden eagerness to begin. To put out our everything. I am new. I stand at the edge, determined to do my best. This is to be my initiation.

We gather around he, our heart. Our beat. He gifts us with courage. We lift each other up, away from our weariness, to that somehow-energy that comes strongest for the very tired.

A storytelling, a teaching. We learn, we repeat, we memorise, we polish. His fingers pound for us on timeless keys the chords, the remembrance and the forgettance. The music deepens; we have found the groove. The dance swells below our voices. It rises, it covers us, we project it, we have found that place as the song raises to a climax.

We lay ourselves bare. We speak with angels.

“This, long ago, is what was called Church. They found it in the fields. They found it in the street. They sung it out from the deepest part of themselves. We are a reincarnation of their joy, and empathy for their suffering. Hold Church wherever you sing, whatever you believe.”

Silence as the song ends. Inaudible heartbeats become tangible feeling. They ring through the room.

Am I the same person leaving through these doors as when I entered them? There is something new inside me. Something awakened. I have been restless for too long; now home has come to me.

I have found Church.

Night; we trickle in from varied paths, out of the dark into the hall. Murmurs. Laughter. We are here with a purpose; we are here for a feeling. We are here for our Tribe. You are my kin; you, and you. We are sin; we find ourselves clean tonight.

March ’07


Eavesdropping on the tinny music from next-door’s radio, I lie under the open window and read haiku as I wait for him.  The thought of his face slips into my mind and I fidget for a moment before being forced to sit up and look out by the gently urgent feeling he is approaching.

new house
waiting for you
to fill the space

January ’07


I adjust my hat, foiling the wind, and stare against the glint of the sun on the water.  I can’t see any fish – but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.  Seagulls call; my nose is filled with salt, air and bait.  Clouds gambol and rocket across the sheet of blue in slow motion.  My father handles the hooks, then hands me my baited line, swinging half-threateningly from the bright red reel.  I drop the line with a satisfying plunk, shattering the sun-pattern on the surface of the sea.  Hypnotised, I watch the sinker twiddle and twirl as it disappears into the deep green, dancing to the depths.  Dad begins to sing a loud and familiar sea shanty.  Eyes fixed on nothing in particular, I grin and hum along.  The world sparkles in tune.

long day
of dad, daughter and fish
salt and sun

February ’06


This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

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