Self portrait 2007

I discovered an old poem that I wrote years ago, the language has changed, the ideas have remained pretty much the same.


close to death
and life
this mechanical animal
stears through air - tight fear
i am here
this inspiration flies
high with fright
it's a sun-bright windy yellow day
almost alone
the eternal crone, my constant companion
reminding me of my death
oh, the value that she brings to every breath
metal monster
in a careless sky
a small sperm like shadow reflected
on the thick blue ocean over which we fly
i would feel free
if i could be
in control
ensure this flight
deliver me whole

Nostalgia

It is almost a week after the autumnal equinox, the air is crisp and there is a thickness in the sun’s shine as if it holds things, maybe memories of long gone times. It warms my thoughts with a welcome and familiar nostalgia. A heart felt place in which I reminisce on this moment eternal. I imagine it as an endless line or point in time colored up and made unique by transient elements, intuitive in design.

I sadly wish that I had been more present, conscious and aware of the passing nature of those aspects and beings which gave my moment its depth. The sweet sound of a bird, the tick of granny’s clock, the murmur of cars moving around on the outside, the smell of black board, her chalky fingers, that first day on my own, the wax wrapped sandwich, the school ground’s red sand, the loneliness, that yearning song and, years later the softness of your touch, your understanding hand. 

I had recently qualified as an architect and began working for Urban Solutions. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon; I’m on my own at the office in Newtown working in an unnecessary extra hour or two. I’m working on my sense of purpose; I’m working on my dreams. The mysterious moans of Siouxsie and the Banshees’ anthemic ‘killing jar’ call out to me from the eighties reaching through my G3’s small distorted speakers in the early 2000’s. I sit at my desk overwhelmed by the heaviness of hope, a dark nostalgia and a desperate regret at having missed out on the revolutionary moments belonging to magnificent others in magnificent times gone.

I dream of my night to come, what it will look like, what it will wear, its dance, its disco of desire, its stolen glances charged with drunken self expression and freedom of movement. I escape there weekly and I begin to live. Each time discovering more of me, each time intoxicated and uninhibited I furiously confront the beliefs which have kept me small and hidden for all this time.

death, the idea is attractive today 
tired i am of not fitting

At some point in my childhood I wondered into a forest, dense and dark. Inside it I felt ugly, uncomfortable and extremely alone. Later on I sought out guides that would lead me to beautiful clearings, optimistic open spaces that I had no idea existed. Today I find myself back in the thick of it and am overwhelmed by the fear, pain and sadness of this disorientating and thorny place within me. I am my own guide now and am uncertain that I can navigate my way back to that clearing.