An archive of the old things.

(Click here for the new things.)

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Photobucket
Photobucket

The wind doesn't blow anymore. The wind doesn't blow and the trees can't breathe. And the heat will turn them into ash as the sun rises and falls, setting fire to the clouds that circle our heads and scramble our thoughts, dulling the senses, blurring the days into each other as we sit on our back steps, on our grass, on our walls, on our pavements, cross-legged, knees and ankles pricked with grit and dust and ash from the sky. Everything bleached with light, everything neon, everything harsh. These days are long, they end at 11 and start again by 3. Blues through the window getting bluer by the hour, trailing the ocean into the night, headlights and searchlights and nightlights. Heartbeat in my hand. Static in my throat. The night air is never still, will never be still, it is more alive than you or I, it pulses, it cackles it screeches like cats. In summer it sings to you from car radios and house parties, 5am, no varnish, no lies, taking off it's make-up and it's eyelashes to show you the other side of night. The tired side, the raw side, running with the wolves at dawn. Ear to the ground, listen for the sounds of the sun underneath trying to break through from where it was buried. Listen for the sound of Ophelia in the water, as we dive out of our windows and drown in bluest sky, reflections of each other, while the stars just sigh.

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Photobucket



Photobucket

I remember when everything was a bowl of cherries. When everything was honey-this and glitter-that, and sugar sweet saccharine peachy-keen words dripped through sentences making a pretty mess everywhere, sliding around the curves of an S, collecting like a rockpool in the hole of an O. The pavements melted in the Summer heat, lemonade was served, magic was something that would fill your lungs with each breath, circle your spine, run through your veins, and in your fingertips electricity would pulse like tiny heartbeats.

And I remember how the glow faded and on everyone's bitten bubblegum lips the same words lived, and I realised that we were all just photocopies in greyscale of something saturated with the brightest of the rainbow colours that we would forever imitate and never be. And why would we want to, and how can we change?

And so I cleared up the glitter and the honey and the stars and trees and dreams. I replaced it with cold hard concrete and ash and the feeling you get when you take off your badge of honour that you were awarded for sadness, and oh how pretty that sadness was but it's time to leave it behind. Now I think that all of your stars, all of that light and the lanterns and the glowing glowing glorious glowing is too bright, it burns, it stings. It is harsh and artificial, I prefer the daylight, the natural light and the shadows that come with it, the shades the shapes the colours the lines. I prefer the natural darkness, all that lies in between the two. I am tired of finding the loveliness in all things lovely.

The rotten, the dusty, the broken, the ruins, the cracking and coughing and banality of everyday existence, this is where I will find the beauty. It is honest and raw. It has good and bad permeating every atom of it's delapidated being. The days will rust and crumble into night, and I will feel it in my bones, it will consume me, with every facet of it's tattered charms.
Photobucket

Darker nights spill ink across the sky and through gaps in the fences in the backyards of our houses. Darker nights spill ink that flows through the windows and blooms like flowers over all of the walls before falling like dying petals through the cracks in the floorboards to tell the basement a story about the summer that we lost and the winter that will come. Darker and darker still.
Photobucket

Everyday starts with mist now, which then evolves into gloom which tiptoes around the edges of darkness for a while until falling from the flat side of the earth into night. These are strange days indeed.




I want to crawl into your boots, crawl into your skin, crawl into your dreams and see things the way that you do. I want to see your thoughts before they make their way out in jumble of words or pictures or actions. Before they get lost in translation. I want to see things in the language of you. Sometimes I feel like I am turning myself inside out just to try and show you the things I want you to see that are inside of me. Before the air hits them, before they turn cold. Maybe. But maybe it doesn't really matter as much as I think, so I'll just go outside and whisper them in the backyard and let the sunlight turn them to gold while the sky sets the trees on fire.