I am a fried egg

there is no toast

new

I've made a new space for writing,  

an unnecessary necessary thing

but if you are reading this - then

do go here and read that 

https://greypaperduck.blogspot.com/

a small thing (1)

this morning, there was an act

well, it was not an 'act' but had some qualities of a performance gone right
though it was an act gone wrong 

what I mean to say is, her intention was to place the glass container with leftovers nobody wants to be reminded of, 

nobody wants to think, oh look at the ridgegourd palya (coated in oil and what can only be self-shame) we are wasting 

while the world goes to ruin 

to place it on the counter. She was not aiming for elegance or anything, but there was a flourish that snuck into her system just as she moved to place it,

and the glass container misread the impulse 

and flew 

magnificently, I'll add

just simply flew out her hand, a glorious leap, a moment of complete freedom,

I'm tempted to mention it catching a slice of sunshine (but, it did all happen quite quickly and slowly at the same time, so this I will omit), 

and then, in an unbelievable fashion

you might ask what is unbelievable man, what goes up must come down, but you were not there so don't talk and learn to trust, there was a temporary sense of confusion in all of us watching - what, how - how did it crash

the confusion was not, how did it leap
it was fixed on the crash

we were with it as it leapt, there was joy in that movement (moment) 

and disbelief as it crashed

well, ridgegourd palya dealt with (that was the good part) 
now the wreckage

so, a few moments of silence in us all, 
brain clearing the table of everything prior, to make space to make sense of this spectacle 
one deft sweep

a little recce

palya contained to largely one splat spot

large pieces staying more or less close to point of impact

the mid sized pieces 
they seized the moment, I'll tell you 
they really capitalised on the escape potential of the whole fiasco
they went far and wide

the smaller pieces, in confused orientation, 
indicating a lack of control or investment in their own selves and outcome

the tiniest pieces, settling into the safety of the mosaic floor
their fate undeterminable by me, or you 

for a flash, I connected with this container

this ex-container

the container that was, and the leap and smash that allowed it to somehow be seen as something other than a container

anyway

we cleaned it all up, best we could 
and got on with our day 

blink

I don’t want to sleep

it brings the next day

you know that’s only going to bring the day after that

I blink, a week goes by, a year

a tap left running

tigerheart

In a room
of her own 

inside me
she paces 

the one 

who is not
Mother.

That restless movement
while uncomfortable 
is preferred
to when 

she goes still.

Stone still
Hard as
when provoked
regardless, 

by child or man.

Remember,

she is not mother.
She is not anybody’s 

anybody;

and when she goes still

I feel capable of anything,
an unfeeling terrifying free falling
Anything.

So 

I draw her back

into her room 
hand her a cup
of something

and can only return to my life
when assured 

she will not
follow me out.

I just can’t 

be

bothered 

to look for the thing

you’ve hidden 

he wants to sit comfortable in any chair he chooses

if he decides the bed is a chair, he should be allowed to sit on it, no questions asked

if he decides your head is a chair, he should be allowed to sit on it, no questions asked

you open your mouth

HEY

no

would you look at

sidewalk flowers

and say,

they will never amount to anything 

Relentless

When I think of the countless photographs 
taken over years and years 

what was the purpose

capturing what exactly

and why

as this thought nestles in

it punctures my lungs

painful

how can one hold time

worse than sand

ridiculous

I miss him

but he is right next to me
ready to wake any minute

crying to say
“I need you, I love you, you are my everything”

Now tell me how that’s not addictive as fuck

who loves you

the ones who want to see you

be around you

hear what you have to say to what they have to say to what you have to say

to join the part of you they keep with them

with what is left of you 

and if no one visits,

look inside

care less

I've painted myself into a corner

now I turn around and paint the corner
leaving footprints and indistinguishable marks
all over my life so far

good only

sufficient

If I could split myself in two

into the one who loves me

and the one who is me

who else would I need

not you 

possibly not

I want to fall asleep
in the sun light that settles in my balcony

letting it warm me, even burn me

just a bit

but

stillness is an effort

my mind and my body

so easily overwhelmed, so constantly frustrated

what is it

everything is fucking fine

Love

love has levels 

it is still love, when I say I love you, and I mean I love 
how you smile, the small sounds you make
the paths your mind takes, where you land
how you land, how you receive 
the way you give

even if
I miss you, but I don't yearn
I don't need to be where you are

it is also love, when I say I love you, and I mean I love
how you make yourself available for me
drop of a hat
how you brought me into this world and cared to keep me happy
my dreams so easily displace yours
and the idea of losing you drowns me in fear
not just sorrow

even if 
it is largely a remnant of childhood
being lost in a crowd having let go of your hand



and of course it is love, when I say I love you, and I mean
there is nothing else 

Hope grows like a weed

I try hard
to plant and tend to
my garden of contentment

but hope grows like a weed

every time I think
I've managed this time, to snip
remove it
poison it
destroy

I sit to enjoy my garden
my eyes relax, my body is calm
and there I see it
again

my heart races

it is so pretty

how the wind catches it
the sun illuminates

no
damn the weed and damn the garden

let me get the flamethrower

Inside

If you broke me open right now
like a coconut smashed in sacrifice 
though I would prefer 
you break me like a fortune cookie 
knowing you'll need to eat the pieces you create

you will find a wish

I'm keeping it hidden
and will not release it till I'm broken

Permanence

If I only feel seen

when you hold the pencil

and draw me into existence

is it so surprising 

that you can erase me out of being

Give me that fucking thing

Crack

(Pencil breaks in 1/3 and 2/3)

I’m holding the instrument now

that shows me

that keeps me here

oh and 

it’s a fucking pen  

Frame

I would need to come live with you. 

For how long? Well, it could be anywhere between a week to a few months, though I usually 'call it' around six months and terminate the assignment, if we haven't got what we set out to do by then. 

Some people are perfectly comfortable letting a stranger into their lives, to record, perfectly happy to be captured just as they are. It could be because they are truly comfortable with how and who they are, though, it's not usually this category who hire me. 

It's more often because they do want 'the truth', they hope to find something in my work that validates their existence, or lets them reframe how they see their lives, themselves. Something they don't need to second guess, clearly they do plenty of that - I mean, that's why they come to me. 

Most often though, it takes a while to break down the facade. Again, the time this takes often lines up with how aware the person is of the existence of a facade and over how many years this has been built and reinforced.

I've noticed though, when you insert yourself into a person's home, which is the closest you get to entering their life - the fastest route, too - cracks appear quicker, and the guard comes down, if nothing out of pure exhaustion of holding up something so heavy for so long. 

What do I charge? 

Well, it depends on the style you want your life and self captured. Wes Anderson is a big favourite. I can do Woody Allen, though people are often embarrassed to request for it. Sure, yes, Noah Baumbach is doable. Black and white too, yes. 

No, I don't usually allow people to choose their own background score. We can talk though.

Alive

though really, staying silent on your blog for countless years does not usually have people suspecting you may be dead. 

What would make people suspect you may be dead? 

see, in this exercise, one has to exclude immediate family members who are used to seeing your face/body on a fairly regular basis. 

others, well

if someone posts a photo of you (preferably sepia/BW), with a teardropface smiley caption. 

if someone sees a bus run over you in a highly unapologetic and smashing manner.

if someone watches you keel over at work and lie on the grimy office floor in a disgraceful fashion. 

if you were standing near a window, with no door in sight, one second, and the next second you were nowhere to be seen. Might help to have an off-white linen curtain flapping rather dramatically out the window.

I'll think of some more.