Wednesday, May 5, 2010


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.

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