Growing up, I knew my father was an amazing singer, and his voice and his shadow threaded themselves through the fabric of my childhood. His voice was a bass baritone, and never spoiled by his drink or his 40-a-day-cigs habit, even though the rest of his body caved in when he was 44. There were many ( Read more... )

What with the Tsunami, I've been thinking about the sea again and my own ( Read more... )

ultraruby got me thinking about my zoo days again ( Read more... )

Most days the surface of my mind is placid and still, turqoise, cobalt and indigo blue. A sea mind ( Read more... )

I've been writing my memories again.

I think it's winter, making me introspective, thinning the veils between worlds. That and the fact that I'm combatting insomnia and celebrating the fact that I can type with nine fingers now.

My Parents Rooms One of the first memories I have of my parents is of their bed. Essentially, it was little more than ( Read more... )

My mind has many mansions. Fields and secret pathways through the woods. I have a terrific capacity to preserve pieces of the past while misplacing my house keys. And of all the things it keeps, it holds colours longes of all. Like the particular corn-gold of sunburnt August grass and the later afternoon ( Read more... )

( A collage of memories )

A man a long time ago, who wrote and made beautiful things. The first person who wrote me love letters, and these made me uncomfortable and thrilled in equal measures ( Read more... )

I am increasingly coming around to the view that I may be too emotional to exist in the world.

( a diatribe on childhood traumas and the unfortunate fates of farm animals )

When I was spending weekend with mate he kept commenting on how little I eat. I don't think I eat little. I think he eats a lot ( Read more... )