Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Sunday, 30 March 2014
Saturday, 15 February 2014
Images are not numbers. Freud
tried translating them. They are
notes towards themselves.
A walled city represents its own
interests. I want to go in
but I don't trust -- its symbol
is the horse, no, an upended
flask of water. I've been there
once creaking like an old door.
Soundly to venture forward
into desire. This film
I think I've seen, but it changes
memory. I dream an entire
film. A recurring dream. Always,
I am some actor, falling into trees.
My mind churns up such thoughts
to bother me on weekends.
Distract me towards the sea, or
to you. My mind on the whole
has betrayed me. Love is strong.
Sunny villas, much running water.
The grasses hush together
in greenness. This stolen city means
so little. I will write it flawed and beautiful.
Sunday, 17 November 2013
There are few things harder to parse than the minor acts of injustice and betrayal perpetrated by good people. Tonight, riding my bike home, I meditated on this and it finally dawned on me: these acts do not make sense because they are thoughtless. Injustice, for good people, is a kind of wave or gestalt that overtakes them when they are weak. The only answer to such wrongdoing is to feel rage - raw rage- at the fear, not at the person and to refuse to, yourself, be afraid. To respond any other way is bound to hurt someone else, if not today, then soon.