Love Letter to the City

Photos, Words

wpid-imag0059.jpg

Sun comes up over city lights.
Street urchins devoured the night.

One person peering out the window sees
another person doing the same
five meters away
yet we’ll never speak to each other
or know each other’s names…
probably.

The city scape isn’t daunting
like the desolating landscape of the country.
In both places though,
the sunrises are lovely.

Life’s a treat.
Let’s go out and wander the streets,
find some decent eats,
dodge the street sweepers,
say hello to the street sleepers,
never know who you might meet.

However many million men, women and children,
life can be resilient
in the heart of the city.
I dreamt that I was here
walking down pavements and alleys,
writing in hideaway cafes,
making myself happy

.

Scibble Extracts

Words

A collection of extracts from my journal over these past absent weeks.

12 May:
Second thoughts are curses
Quirky perks disperse with stress,
What’s worse?
An empty lesson or an empty purse?

14 May:
They talk like I’m not here,
not near,
not clear;
a testimony to the idea
that I might be just a little bit weird
and when I talk it’s to an empty room,
a looming truth so what’s the use
of singing to their tune?

16 May:
The landscape’s curling line
echoes my learning state of mind.
The heartbeat of the land,
a sublime stroke by a genius hand.

17 May:
Talking shit again.
It’s well inended, but it’s not making me any friends
so let’s put it to an end and write
something worth something

I got nothing.

18 May:
Feels like I’m fracking in my own mind,
tunneling for diamonds like its a fucking mine

20 May:
I look around and see nobody
because I am the time waster
I am the great procrastinator
I am the perpetrator of my perceived failure.

28 May:
Erase the mistakes
with better choices and a new set of brakes.
Flaky rat race,
and you’ve got shit on your face.
I can’t replace a single piece of time that I’ve wasted.
A lot of us chase our tails
holding back to avoid a fail,
wailing wind gone out of our sails

1 June:
Goodness gracious
Look at all those blank spaces!
Left behind by righteous faces
who’s good graces are crumbs;
who’s crooked thumbs
numbly fire tasers at the cultured ones.

2 June:
A giant cheeky moon plays peekaboo
Shining bright along the hilline
Dark green contrast on a moody blue

6 June:
I’m still alive with a chance to resist loudly,
resist proudly.

7 June:
Satire is dead
and those machines have still got to be fed.
Living in dread of the block heads.
We are the children
of an inbred fictional debt,
cold steel of invisible chains,
the culture of blame in the age of No Regrets

11 June:
Mushroom fumes in stuffy rooms,
purple stain from acid rain.
Doomsday news courtesy of plumes,
pass off blame and ways to complain.

12 June:
A divine horizon stole my breath
but it’s a guess how long the land has left.

14 June:
Sucking life like a ring wraith
closing in on the spaces
of more vulnerable faces
trying to take more time but time doesn’t give,
it takes.

Vanquished

Words

And it’s not because I don’t believe that you’ve never felt this
Or that I believe I’m the only one that’s in this
But who are you to hijack my pain?
To squelch across the floor of my beliefs
And try to show me that you’ve got this

Because you haven’t
And neither do I
And how do I move on from something so
Untouchable
So unbelievably vanquished
And sodden
I’m not the downtrodden
I don’t believe I will be down here forever

So pick yourself up and move on
Say motherfucker who are you
This is my life
And my beliefs in this trial are what I am
And so I stand
And here I am

Not only to become a man
Or a woman
But a person whose place in this universe isn’t predestined by someone else’s beliefs
But my own

I am who I am
And right now I stand here to tell you this
This is your life
Don’t let anybody say that you’re not right for this
Or that you can’t do what you want to do
cause its up to you

And I believe that
We are who we are
Never mind who they are
I stand alone as myself
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.

-Steph

A Metaphysical Without a View

Words

I emerge from the darkness of sleep and I am standing in the infinite hallway of the subconscious mind.

Hundreds of white doorways line long white walls; all are closed and some are locked. The fluorescent lights cover the ceiling like a buzzing, glowing mosaic.

This place makes me feel weirdly relaxed; a strange dimension where I can never stay long. This is the safe house – a sub-conscious waiting room.

The rule is: I have to open a door and walk through it. There are no clues in this place suggesting what could be on the other side. I might find a garden path leading to future nostalgia, or face to face with the glowing eyes of the lingering fears.

Choose now, don’t think too hard about it or the material world will invade the meditating mind. Time doesn’t stop in any realm and soon I’ll wake up, hurtling back into a frenzy of distractions and mortal shortcomings.

I count seven steady breaths as I walk quickly down the corridor, face the door on my left and turn the handle, then walk into the light.