I find it quite interesting (by which I mean annoying) that when I play a piano piece I used to know very well, but which has – through my recent abandon of it – started the gentle cascade towards only semi-memory, it is the old favourite parts that I mis-play, or forget completely. I get to the most beautiful part of a piece; the section I would once have felt my way through with my eyes closed, or while gazing absently at the blue picture frame in front of me (which used to belong to my Grandma and contains a poem about how much more we would value the world if it were small enough to fit in our hands), but this time my fingers freak out and have no idea what to do. Continue reading
You are my favourite whim; my grounding line; my comfort and my direction.
May my ship always sail boldly towards you, with hand-written notes-to-self flickering skull-flags at the front.
You have guided me through deep waters and beamed over rocks in the night.
May your power never be mistaken for limp liminality; may your presence always be fondly felt.
May your laugh never falter; may logic dictate you and heart revel in you, but may you raise your eyebrow, gameful, in the face of calendrical chronology. Continue reading
It is all I want; drawers of varying sizes
which slide out and in again; a place to put
my little notes (my fears, my dreams, the things
which amuse me throughout a day).
A sort of posting device; quiet acceptance.
This is not a euphemism.