Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound

I’m taking a brief departure from my usual slosh of poetry, prose and odd diary-like entries to write more plainly and probably less effectively about feelings. Specifically, the process of having them and then turning them into art. Or at least trying to.

Also, just a disclaimer, I’m using the term ‘art’ to describe all ‘creative practice’, not in any way to imply quality or merit to what I do here, just as an encompassing term for making stuff and honing in on creativity. So let’s get down to it. Continue reading Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound

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Late Afternoons

Spring is here. I can feel it seeping into my skin, crawling up my bones, a warm tingle spreading from once cold fingers.

I am a winter person, or autumn, to be more accurate but I’ll deal with extremes. What I mean is that given the choice to live my last day in either excessive heat or cold I’d choose the second. For heat is stifling. Spring means summer is on the way and that reality leaves me conflicted. Eyes looking constantly forward are bound to be disappointed.

So to make a cringe-worthy metaphor, to find positivity, to spring to a spring cliche, I can pluck a small flower of optimism and let words like renew and re-birth cloud my formerly pessimistic vision.

Eyes wide open.

This change of season and late afternoons spent outside in the fading light. The buzz of insects and the rumbling purrs of my cat and the smell of grass and growing humidity lets me breathe a little deeper, a little longer.

Change is in the air.

Exhale hope.

Constellations

I like the sound of my pen scratching paper drawing smooth long lines until we

Stop

come up for air and breathe for a while

aimlessly wander to the brink,

of this morning’s tastes
and the colours of last night
that have seeped into your skin.

For my pen could draw lines on your back connecting each scar, freckle, blemish

Rose Tattoo

A constellation tattooed in the back of my mind though nothing is permanent,

but the sound of my pen this morning and you-

 

beautiful.

Morning After

after

nights spent in sadness, cocooned in blankets, hands clasped, close to your chest with shallow breaths, clinging to the edge of your rib cage, clawing at your throat
escaping

in and out, in and out again, your dry and evaporated breath, air to lungs, fingers shaking, lips trembling
eventually

skinny light edges through your windows and birds wake up before you do and you, you let your feet swing to the edge, maybe slowly at first, your heavy still, but not anchored

eventually
toes slip from the bed to the floor, sinking into carpet, into socks, into slippers, maybe boots, your move next, and you move

on
and on

again.

 

Directionless

Forwards, backwards, two steps to the right and back again. The weight of the world does not rest on my shoulders alone. It’s weighing us down together.

That morning, I decided to go for a walk. A slow walk, not at my usual hurried, gangly pace. I slowed and noticed. I noticed the clichèd sounds of wind rustling through trees as my feet sank with every step, disappearing into the mud.

I had laid awake, listening to that 2 am rain. 

I watched tiny birds hop over puddles and absently wondered if they’d forgotten their wings. I walked on, sure of my direction, yawning and squinting into beams of early morning light. Shadows crept into view. 

I strayed off the quote unquote Beaten Track. I was drawn into the wild shrubbery, taken in by the allure of the moss covered rocks, twisted, fallen branches and gum trees that seemed to be giving up. Further and further from man made suburbia I strayed. Away from the distant views of empty driveways and laced kitchen windows I ventured.

I am lucky to live where I live until living becomes a conscious effort. The physical place does little to make up for a mental space that’s becoming smaller and smaller. Lucky is now a synonym for acceptance, an expected social nicety and empty consolation. It even sounds hollow, clicking on the edge of my tongue.

The outdoors is nice. Beautiful. Even though I’ve dressed it up in manufactured subtext by romanticising the trees, moss rocks and birds, and needlessly describing the squelching of hiking boots.

Do I ever just walk?

Be

the splash of milk in morning coffee
the worn pairs of socks sliding down hallways
the snort of true laughter
and the crinkles of true faces
and the gaps between teeth
the colour of ideas, rainbow, tomorrow
The scraping of chairs, the taker of seats
The owner of space
the rustle of feathers, the rustle of papers
the leaning forward, the leaning in
the unfolded petals, of letting light in, open
Turned to face the sun