29 March 1995

Somehow I am left thinking that in this age of technological advancement and wonder, the revolution will have to be televised.

* * *

La Revolucion No Sera Televisada!

* * *

The kind of statement that draws applause with smiles; nods of condonement and gestures of agreement. I wonder how much the speech writer was paid. Actually, I don't, I wonder what I will eat for dinner; where I will find my next love, when my library borrowings are to be returned. Is there any mail?

13 February 1995

I feel... A statement rather than a description. Oh fuck it - like shit.

* * *

The trumpeters have marched to their corners, like the victorious boxer before his final round.

Cold and aloof, the sweat pours off him. He raises his fist and spits. The saliva falls and splashes in a mosaic of pre-destined glory. A mouth-guarded grin; pure white. Happy. The bell sounds.

The trumpets are tilted and raised to the puckered lips. Staring along their tall flutes, the quartet is passionless; ready and waiting for the maestro to drop his hand. Their instrument is not a rifle, yet both play the one tune. Looking down the golden barrel, they wait in the corners. The bell chimes.

1998?

Dear Suzi,

I miss you. It is night and I am alone, or to be somewhat more accurate, I am lonely.

When I was outside, just before, I contemplated the actuality of being under the same sky as you. It is one of those smoky nights that could do with a dose of darkness. Humankind has managed to pollute the night and clouds are a faded cage(?) shadowing the moon and stars. Everything is murky. The original constants; darkness and light, have been tainted and are true no more. So how are you?

Still beautiful, I imagine, how could you not be? Perhaps that was my problem. Maybe it was your problem too. Perhaps. I don't really know. That's not unusual. Life is funny; not funny ha ha; not humorous funny, but I laugh regardless. You know how it is.

I am thinking. Without you I am nothing. I am not sure if when I was with you I was nothing or annoying. I hate past tense. I love you. It's funny.

Ash

26 February 1995

I am comfortable, calm. My face doesn't feel like it is going to explode.

4 February 1995 - 20th birthday

When you are young, twenty is old, adult old. I feel old, although the ragged age that is forgotten dreams is not mine. Limbo time. I am dancing under the pole; another round and back in the queue. The music is bright, humming and shaking. The maracas rattle and I am worn. The pole is being lowered, or am I getting taller? Either way, my back aches. Still, I am back in the queue, the pole beckons me forward yet again. I answer it, I arch and sway, eyes opened - eyes closed.

Another year, another birthday, that's how it works for the pole and me. 

In limbo time we march and wait; wait for the time and for the queen. When the queen comes, she will give the order and we will wait no more.

The pole is too low; no, I am too high. The queen has spoken, "Off with his head."

21 March 1995 - "I Like the Cut of your Jib"

The quarry had the distinct odour of meat and electronics. The whole, indeed, was like the brainchild of the electric bar-b-que. Men and women, but mostly men, young and succulent current, ready to be tossed and broiled. The egg timer ticking like a microwave counting down its rotations.

The consonance of the auction house was kept by the auctioneer, who else? His clicking tongue, coupled with his booming lungs, all three of them, always brought to mind the reluctant impression of an inverse Mr Bumble on speed. Upon his podium, he would lap up the bids; a hungry dog with his bowl of processed chunder. Each movement was seized upon; a wink, a nod, a tap of the foot. Don't turn your head, keep eye contact but don't look. Up the price higher and further. A lawyer! The sale of the day; experienced engineers - a bargain; process workers - sturdy, reliable. Come on now gentlemen, he made assistant manager at McDonald's and now stop. Silence of movement.

15 February 1995

The wind swings low through the trees, dispersing itself amongst burnt rustles of foliage and easily swayed branches. It picks up its passengers and gives them a free ride; as the unseen hand of God plays friendly driver to a wayward band of hitchhikers. Always moving forward or in anyways onwards, the leaves, twigs and bugs, dead and undead, progress and then fall. Swiftly some are collected up again, chosen to take flight just a little further. They may make it just past that rock, that tree or even that hill. Some may soar beyond the beginnings, finding they're way out, although usual circumstances predict that the way out is blocked by a spider's web that lets the wind flow through while holding its cargo for a toll. If pre-destination is your inclination a suggestion would be to make yourself undead before you intrude upon the thread spinner.  

"Travels have been known to lead to trouble." that's what my grandfather, my pop, was known to say. To the best of my knowledge, Pop never travelled abroad after returning from the war. He did go to New Zealand for Bess' wedding, but that doesn't count, New Zealand never does. Pop stayed put, his feet were firmly on dry land. So much so, that leaves and dead insects had stopped at his legs while moss took form on the toes of his gumboots. A man entrenched in his environment so to speak, that is, if he would stop himself.

No one got a word in edgeways, sideways or by digging a tunnel from China, around Pop. The stories he would tell in his splendid wooden tones were rich with regret and confidence, he spoke of life as if it was to die for. Amber filled tales, that gave answers to forgotten times and their habits. Times that did not exist and never would, becoming real because of a man with his feet in the mud and cobwebs under his arms.