Sunday, April 6, 2008


I used to read a lot of books.
History, mostly,
some fantasy,
some serious literature,
but mostly history.
Text books even,
from High School
that I'd found in boxes
in second hand bookshops
or Op Shops,
or fetes.
Fetes are good for
things like that.

Mostly Asian history.
Sengoku Jidai,
the Warring States
of Feudal Japan
and all the way up to
the Meiji Restoration.
Early 20th Century China,
The Long March,
The Empress Dowager,
Chiang Kai Shek
and Mao,
though I was never one
for dogma,
just the history of how it happened,
what had happened
and how it led to this.

I see,
he says.

I don't look at him,
I just lie back and
stare at the ceiling.
It is freshly painted,
as though to cover
the passage of
everyone else's

I wonder how the ceiling
must feel,
being stared at all day,
by the insecure,
the confused,
the needy and
the desperate.

So you were escaping
your present
through reading
about the past,
he says.

And as he
murmurs something
and scribbles scratch
with his pencil and pad

I say,


I was just really
interested in History.

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