Sunday, May 30, 2010

A Freedom Song.

There will always be hearts that can grow on their own.
And the Free Birds that sing their own song, all alone.
But my own heart needs a Love that can show I'm not alone.
And we'll be free of the need to sing our Old Freedom Songs.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


I find it hard to relax. My brain moves fast. I pace a lot. I like stimulation. My hands feel like they need to be doing, all the time. I find it hard to concentrate. I find it hard to empathise. I find it hard to work out where I fit. Or if I should fit at all.

Last night I had a Reiki session. I tried to clear my mind of cynicism. I tried to clear my mind of a lot of things. I lay on the massage table and let my breathing deepen. I listen to the lady talk calmly about the Angel who was here with us. I thought, I don't feel worthy of an Angel. I'm pretty sure he won't waste his time with me.

This was the first step.

It's no secret to myself, that I find it incredibly difficult to love myself. I have a family history of self-loathing, self-destruction and I also have an aversion to people who self-promote, people who carry themselves with what I sometimes think is an air of arrogance. This twists my perception of the world, until I can no longer function in a social environment. Amongst friends, I am safe. We understand each other and our place in each other's hearts. But in relationships, or out, or amongst strangers, I am prone to either talking too much, too fast, or being incredibly shy and insecure. I never know if what I have to offer is worth anything to anyone. I keep my own company a lot.

To me the session seemed to run for fifteen minutes. It ran for over an hour. I was lucid the entire time. I remember thinking I needed to force myself to stop thinking. My shoulders felt locked. I felt strange. Slowly, the right side of my body seemed to float, though the left side of my body seemed to become incredibly heavy. I couldn't move my left hand at all, though the right arm felt as though it had floated through the ceiling. Time bent. I was not dreaming. I wasn't sure. Thoughts and people swam through me. I tried to focus on my own soul. I thought I should do that. That this was a moment for me. I didn't want to think the things I thought. I felt people in the room. Two, three other people. Moving around me. I didn't open my eyes.

Animals came. The first animal I saw was a Boa-Constrictor. Huge. This stayed with me for a long time. I watched it wrap itself around the trunk of a tree. Slowly. It was not frightening. After this a human hand came through the dark and reached for me. Behind it was the face of a gorilla. This faded quite quickly. A deer, in long grass. And finally, circles, which became wings, which became butterflies. Hundreds of butterflies. I thought I had let myself be distracted. I tried to relax. The session, however, was over. I had been out for over an hour.

Afterwards we spoke about my experience. I told her about the animals I saw and she told me what the meaning of each represented in my life. There was so much truth. I felt shy. She said, if you embrace your past, if you are able to do that, your music will grow ten, a hundred fold. She told me the over riding message she had received from both the Angel and someone I knew who had passed over was that I needed to begin to love myself from the inside.  She said that. I blinked a lot. My head felt warm.

This is the difficulty.

Driving home I spoke to my friend who had taken me there. I said, I don't know why an Angel would bother with me. I feel as though an Angel would rather take care of someone else.

And I didn't mean to, but I cried when I heard myself say this.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


I saw The Makers this morning. I saw them in the stars, the shapes of them like Druids. I saw the things they had  taught me in The Past. Things I had forgotten, but always felt. The shapes, the numbers.

I saw the Map of Everything.

I remembered a story recently. I shared it with Her as we drove that carved coast. Two British journalists who spent twenty years living with the desert dwellers, somewhere in South Australia, I think. Up north. This story shifts in the back of my mind, as though it were a dream I dreamed I dreamed. Twenty years they lived there. Filing reports, telling the outside world how things were. Until one day they decided to stop. And the story goes that they were finally accepted into the tribe and as such were given a secret so large, that they forever swore each other to secrecy...

Did I dream this story?

Does it matter?

I saw The Makers this morning. I saw them in the stars, and I knew.

I knew that out there in the desert The Map of Everything covers the sky, and you could spend 40,000 years studying it before you finally saw how it really was. How it's all laid out there for us to see. If we look up. If we switch off this Artificial and let the Darkness come, to finally see the stars, the way they're meant to be seen.

As the Map, the fucking map, of Everything.

Time to follow the Madness.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Art is Dead.

There's a book
a man wrote
that sits dusted and dog-eared
on a shelf in
a cabin
and the words sing
of a love that rings
if only we could listen
but the man is dead
and his book's unread
and his love has died with him.

Written with love his words
that I will never see,
I sing this song to his memory.

There is art
in a safe
held by a rich and broken widow
and the paintings scream
with the artist's dreams
and all his love lorn bleeding
but it's dark in the hold
as the paintings grow old
and the widow just grows richer
for the man is dead
and the paint that he bled
has been turned into numbers.

Painted with love his art
that I will never see.

I sing this song to his memory.

In the dark light
there's a boy tonight
who is singing a song of her.
And his fingers bleed
as he sings of his need
to just once hold her.
And if I close my eys
I can hear his cries
like a nightingale weeping,
for she is dead
and the song in his head
will never, ever reach her.

Written with love these words
that you will never see.

I sing this song
to your


Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Shell Shock.

Listening to New Order always makes me remember a time when kissing was everything.I can't explain it. It sounds like a tongue kiss.
Like a phone call.
Like a stomach flipping crush. Like hot air after winter.
Those Saturday afternoon Underground discos, when all my friends would make out and I would stand in the dark in pointy shoes and black clothes my sister would have sent me out in.
Too short to kiss. Too shy to try.
And then, a girl, a goth, a memory, who I don't know, what colour hair, I don't care, She found me and we sat in a corner, sixteen years old, and it was all so...wet and open and not about Love.

Hold on. It's never enough...

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Against the wind.

There are still a few men who love desperately.


Monday, May 10, 2010


In the box, decorated wood grain and sixties light, The Nightingale and The Dream sing to us and we sink in whiskey bliss. An under cover interest in all these secrets. Worlds and words and shadows and a beautiful outpouring of Them and Us. Strangers. Friends. I shadow away when I feel the cracks appear. The best impressions a faint smoke and fragrance. And all of that? It don't matter so much anymore. When late night those red riled rhythms course and curse. Ribbons in the night, curling, twirling, swirling in time to a luscious comedy. It's like we know now.  That all the doors are weird, not just one. That every, any, outcome is inevitable.

Autumn wraps us in her arms.
And patterns repeat under the most glorious sky 
as oh, those eyes...
I could sail those waters
out and over
over the edge of Yesterday,


I just keep looking forward.

It's far more lovely than looking back.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Bible Black.

In the back of the theatre I sang for me
I called out, thankyou, as loudly as I could.
I am free to do this.
I left the taxi and walked ten blocks home,
running my hands softly over the bricks of each house I passed.
I kept myself to one cigarette, and waited for the right time to smoke it.
The park was dark and the shadows sharp.
Anonymous Assassins shared secrets in the blind.
I sifted and shifted, pieces to peaces.

And my memories were:

In the back of the theatre I sang for me

and called out, thankyou, as loudly as I could.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Each one is a setting sun.


Walked out this morning and nearly wept at how lifelike everything was. 
I picked up a handful of dirt and just looked at it. I picked it up for you.


Which part of the story is this? The end, the beginning, the crossroad, the sad hopeless despair from which point the arc slowly rises in beautiful the embrace which waits, years from now, in which they finally find peace and surrender -  jesus, give it a rest, would ya? - or is it where you realise that you both need to be in your own story. Centralise yourself. Do not intertwine plots. The best ones always come as a surprise anyway. Let it go, let it go.

So I'll relocate my sleeved heart, and I'll keep it hidden amongst the strangers' cold eyes and grey streets, and I'll be an artist and writer and musician, that's what I'll say. A new life awaits on the Off World Colonies.

And I will stop trying to write her story too.

And it's not that we won't move on, it's just that I wish we didn't have to.

I wish the music, the driving, the glint, the brains, the eyes, the art, the wide open depths...too many wishes. Too many wishes. 

You're right. You usually are.

I move so fast when I am decided.

Oh Deer.

I've written a love story for so long, I've lost the power to write a mystery.

So now I'm just going to drive - forward, every day.
Until I slide over the edge of the world.


And hey - if anyone understands, it's you.

One day, this will be nothing but Glorious Art.

A bridge to the past.



Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and the pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because, in the last analysis, all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Hold Steady.

Heaven is whenever we can get together
Sit down on your floor, and listen to your records
Heaven is whenever we can get together
Lock your bedroom door, and listen to your records.

Sunday, May 2, 2010


Down the snake
to stretch the skinned
which may yet be
proved too heavy in scale
for Hope's sweet
light up
in palm
in unacknowledged quiet
down the snake
a soft, salt peace
breathes on skin
let me in
let me in
I can see Time's
shifting foundations
force cracks
in this dreamy veneer
until Reality blurs into clouds
which swim in schools
across the vast blue sky
as shy
as shifting eyes
and hidden heart.

Next the sky was pink,
a single star, as the sun bowed
and left the stage for
rising moon
and was it her who forced the night to blush
as I
her close confessions a silver web
with which to darn a damsel's dress
a classic beauty
to inspire
the white armies below
who having charged tirelessly for eons
for but a single inch
of Earth
find new valour
in the sight
of her indecision.

I stand involuntarily
to attention in every moment.

What we see
out there
 that horizon
sometimes so distant
(then close, then distant)
this battle may be never ending
I surrender before
red cliffs

this most beautiful


When I was little, I always watched the rain drops race down the side of the window, and tried to work out which one would reach the bottom first.