While waiting for the evening train.
/Having parted with my two dearest friends that morning following a most magical time together in the misty Blue Mountains, I continued in the dream-like state I had found myself in and spent a summers day in Sydney where strangely the mist had found itself too. Looking at art in galleries and reading books in libraries, it seems I was still in a dream!
'Watch the slow door'
/And mostly when I’m living daily life, doing daily life things, all I really feel I’m doing is whispering important nonsense into the sleeves of a straight jacket and tracing footprints around on a well-worn floor, having been ushered inside a revolving door.
How they all laughed at me.
/I played the game for a little while and wearied of having to stay in it just to gain more and more. So I pulled out and let the others win.
But it is just a game, for fun, they teased.
Perhaps it was just my heart that could never understand the point- to win, was to make others lose. How does one think like that and call it a game they enjoy.
Distant Land (prelude)
/Oh where are they all going, and how may I go there too?
Going Home
/Taking the backroad this evening.
she remembers
/She closed her eyes and tried very hard to remember her last moment. She remembers…
in her last moment, her whole life flashed before her eyes…
not the one she had lived
…but the one she had missed.
Somewhere in time
/The years passed by…and I passed by the years.
Hanging
/
Dear Moon
/.
Finished another work, finished another day
/What more could I do but sigh, smile at the beautiful sadness of it all and then begin another work and begin another day.
Fabric of the Universe
/Weft and Warp, Space and Time
Waterfront
/Every day she writes you a letter with a pencil that has no lead,
and addresses it to a future house, that never does get built…
Lost and found
/We are lost now…
But every evening, when I close my eyes,
I return to the place where you found me.
The poles are flipping.
/Going a different direction to reach the same sky.
An old story
/Her body is an empty house once bought by a man for the price of love. The man used to enter with care and take pride in decorating it with expensive trinkets.
Soon he came and went as he pleased. He locked the door always but left the shutters open so as to let curious people look in but never enter. Soon he stopped coming altogether. Still he would not sell the house.
The house grows tired, old and has become so cold as there is no one to light the fire anymore. The dampness is rising and the foundations are crumbling.
It is a shame that no one ever comes to save her, and discover the beauty that lay within neglect.
The beauty in neglect.
Another old story.
/I was so cold that night and the firewood was no more.
All that was left to burn in my little room was an old wooden chair and my paintings; the ones I painted for you, the ones I painted of you, and in every brushstroke my memory of you and I.
So I carried the old wooden chair and sat it by the fireplace, gathered the precious paintings and offered them to the hearth.
I sat on the chair and lit my last match- An Inferno…
You kept me so warm that night.
I drew one thousand lines today, in the sitting of one hour.
/
‘The Buried Life’