Category: Journal
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14 June: Journal of Thoughts from Last Week
On the Drive Back We took a right off Mount Pleasant,onto Battlefield Boulevard—past Redeemer Church,the Stars-and-Stripes postboxtilted like it’s listening to ghosts,past the 45 signbent sometime in the nightby someone who didn’t quitemake the elbow turn. Two lefts and a right—past the woman mowingthe white heads off cloverlike she’s trimming memory,past the tree that refuses…
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23.05: Journal of Thoughts
Peripherals The centre dissolves—but the edges bloomwild and electric.A flicker of moth-wing,the sly grin of doorframesas the world reshufflesinto a deck of half-guesses. Vision now meanswatching the airdance with whatit won’t let you hold. There are memoriesstill tattooed on your lids.Let the periphery preachits gospel of shadows—each blur a velvet rebellionagainst the sun’s sharpness. And…
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15.05: Journal of Thoughts
A Journal of Thoughts from This Week 13 May – walking on Lower Lodge Gill, West Sussex The flail mower growls through the lane—it’s a starved thing,metal teeth gnashing cow parsley and nettles into pulp,spitting out splinters, limbs, stalks and petals—confetti—a wedding and war all at once. Casualties counted in flashes of sight—a shrew’s twitching…
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14 May: Journal of Thoughts
While Lightning Took Apart the Sky While lightning took apart the sky,and rain fell in muddy lustre—morning arrived. Pockets of light and clouds splitting their seams open, and even crows paused their voices,stuffed with static and an aftertaste of storm. I set the table—knives and forks,and plates with edges to the horizon—and tea and toast…
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A Few Hours with Joe Bonamassa
Where music lives not just in the ears, but in the bones—sometimes shattering boundaries to write new stories within. Joe Bonamassa — Brighton Centre (27 April/25) Second row; first two seats on the left of the centre block—we’re close enough to see a trickle of sweat. The lights search the room, then settle on the…
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23.04: A Letter to Yureth
FIVE SONGS FOR YURETH – Not Fire, But Forging Dawn licks the edges of what we almost know—brushstrokes and inkblots,the way a halo fractures—into 27 syllables. No Book ever taught us that. We are not making myths.We are peeling back the skyto find where we left them. FATE? (a quadrille of 44 words) To spin…
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16.03: Journal of Thoughts
My Chrysalism I found the first book I ever read in a wilted cardboard box in the loft—a story about a mischievous little girl who lived in an orphanage in Paris, though the orphanage turned out to be a boarding school, which, to a five-year-old, felt much the same. As I opened it (the spine…
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9 March: Journal of Thoughts
Spring Spring Spring The daffodils are blooming. Spring. I had to repeat it several times. Spring. Just to believe it. Mum had set the old family bible on the table—my line-of-sight at that small age, “Our family line all die in the winter,” and she buried the point deep into me with her finger pressing…
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07.03 Ex Nigro et Albo Hiemis
Ex Nigro et Albo Hiemis It’s from the east facing window that I watch spring, although this morning’s winter fog obscures the view from anything beyond the windowsill, but no matter—I’m unmoored from gloom by an amber warning to winter that blooms bright as a lantern. Yes, the crocuses are blooming; yes, the birdbath has…
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1 March: Journal of Thoughts
Flowing in a Stream of Consciousness When I wasn’t old enough to know better, I gave my favourite doll a haircut—she had a string in the back of her neck that you pulled, and then she’d say stuff—and being quite pleased with her haircut, I showed her to my mum, declaring that when I grow…
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