Crunching.

He'd begun to feel a dislocation from everything that had felt familiar and pleasant. Simple conversations were now crunching and stressful; he was missing a beat. Did others recognise this in him? Did they too feel this way and it was life marching naturally forwards. Age letting us know that age mattered. Were they observing and commenting on how out of step he was or was this paranoia a symptom of his state?

Sale.

there's a garage sale in a seaside town

this Saturday, 7am start, NOT BEFORE!

plenty of bric-a-brac:

candlewick bedspread, books, dining table and 5 chairs 

(one missing – don't know what happened to it),

tools, clothes, an old television (still goes)
a telescope, hammock, map of the coast,

a birdcage, briefcase, electric lawnmower,

some pick-up-sticks and a deck of cards (complete!).

little will sell;

the buying happens over the road 
at the new red shed –

where guaranteed warranties 
are as cheap as chips.

but never mind! 

the locals still 
will come along

to natter, to chat,

to complain a bit 

about this and that;

(price of milk, price of fuel, price of progress).

"sub-divison up the way's coming along at a rate of knots,"

they'll say, 

one judgmental eye 
on the bright concrete driveway 

snaking behind
the bulldozed section past 

'weatherboard' (kitset) houses

blocking the sea, the horizon, the view 

beyond tables laden with 40 years 

of domestic history,
and one judgmental eye 
on the overpriced 
used cutlery.

Instinct.

Memory at 1 day old sounds implausible, but it was so for me. Even if you have now forgotten incidents of that time, at that moment you would remember from second to second. Otherwise you would not learn. Some instinctual and automated responses are built-in, like breathing, crying when hungry, fear of harm; along with these are memories that teach us to shape external influences for a desired response. I just happen to have excellent recall. Some do. This is both a curse and a blessing. The detail of my first breath is as graphically disturbing to me now as that of my first word. That word was 'Help'. Besides, the evidence shows that even if we can't process meaning, our brain is conscious. It remains conscious for up to 30s after decapitation; it may even have happened already. This could be the last sentence you...

Aphonic.

They say he is a closed book. He’d say, if he could, that he is devoid of Words and Language. People attempt to prise him open; to study his contents for fragments of meaning; to read him and know what makes him so. But he knows he’s an authorial fraud; his pages are empty, his contents non-existent. Life is narrated for him; writes itself, it seems. He crafts no Words and Language of his own. He is an impostor in another’s text. I ask him, ‘Does this mean anything to you or is it all just words? This poetic prose pared to lean syntax, the satisfied sigh of the last line, the simple beauty of the story – is it soundless or does it speak to you? He does not reply.

Fame.

Mine was a symptom of a larger malaise. The vast loneliness of humankind produces an endless longing to be heard. An individual's obsession with their perceived birthright to be lauded, and granted 15 minutes of fame, is merely a lament out loud. Everyone always striving to give a 'shout out'. Look at me! Listen to me! A desperate plea for someone, anyone out there listening for their call, ready to hear them, admire them, attest to their existence. For silence is emptiness, is death. I needed to feel again to be inspired, to be exhausted, or I may as well be dead.

Asemic continuum.

Resolution.

My 2012 resolution is to consistently post an entry on this blog each day, for one day only, starting Jan 6th. After that, it will be random as per all years prior. 


** Update: I have achieved this and am content. 2012 is looking like a breeze would look if you could see it.