Have you wondered

if you'd take my in your arms and tell me that the charms that flow from your milk-shake hair will envelop us in a mueslin cloth floating free from time? I often think of half-felt impulses, words caught by the web of propriety in my throat -- words stumbling with the lub-dub of my beating heart but becoming formless in the noise of consciousness. Thickly, there is no heart that would bear this. You paddy foot around with strange ideas -- rejecting sanity like the distant barking of dogs or the rattling exhaust pipes ill-fitted on ramshackled lorries.

You looked at the fillets of sting-ray waiting to be barbarqued and wondered about the oozey slime that gives their skin a sheen and makes chomping pleasurable. Cartiledge and bone confused and compressed in my chomping jaws.

Brigning it all back

I attended an inane MOE schoarship presentation today -- not because I was interested in qwhat the minister -- who has never been a teacher -- had to say but because I affirm the life-gigving impulses that all who want to teach have -- inherent in their mixed motives and less than altruistic aims. I nbo longer side the machoine with its impulses and superficial comments abot refoire. I am my own institution -- I believe in the idiosyncratic melange of curiosities that spring from tbe heat oppresssed brain. I pay back every bond in full knowledge of the social condemnation that teachers must sufgfer oince they decide to exist within the System. Once you call yourself an officer of the MOE , a Head of department or a supporter of the initiatives, YOU yes you (not me) are a cog in the system -- a willing servant in the machine -- a willing victim waiting for your moment when you can stop pretending and spring from the camo of being liberal and unmask you puritanical conservativism -- your need for the inante order your need to stuff everyone's loose ends into your own arse, into your own broom of the system never keeps clean but mops up the excrement that flows from the looseness of your ever-refined never tight enough system. Youir speeches about blue skies, innovation and screwing enterprise, are a prize gem gangrened and rotting like an amputated limb that twiches and squirms and will not declare that its end is nigh. I forsake you ALLL -- you screw balls high on political correctness and polite applause -- you believers that you will change the methods of divide and conquer -- there is nothing more. I screw with tartlets and cream, reigning supreme in the dream of vast empty spaces where we are left, finally alone.

I attended a scholarship presentation today. You could tell, from the eager faces and the firm naivete who is gonna be the one screwing my ass in ten years time. Work hard -- you screwers -- then you can tell me to file my ass in your purple and pink folders in tens years time -- and demand that this wine that I consume be bled form me -- like the sap from a trunk that has lost its loins! Now's the time to wonder how archaic memory is when it remain lost and searching in the peninsula of half forgetting and purple fortutide. I am so pissed on red -- I am missing my every other key stroke. I have the precision of a padfoot -- pronged and screwed inside out by and inceipient desire to be different -- an original taste of the never more ever after.

It's the Same

I've shuttling too much in the real world for the longest time.  I've been most pragmatic about what living entails.  I've been paying my dues and concentrating on work, tying up loose ends and making sure things that need to get done are properly done.  In a moment, the rain will stop and I will feel that urge to be unreflective and entirely dull to these pulses that rise.  Perhaps it only takes two moments -- one the immediate present and then the confused step to re-create that moment in writing, circling the moment, turning it on its head, confusing the moment in time, with time.  An observation that grounds writing in the real world:
 
I went to borrow books today -- at the Orchard Library.  Borrowed two Tim O'Brien books -- both on Vietnam.  I must confess that I am often disappointed by the NLB system because books that are supposed to be on the shelf often go missing, are placed in the wrong section or have disintegrated into the pages of more frequently borrowed titles.  Anyway -- I was pleased that I managed to get what I wanted.  There is a dread I feel when I borrows books that has haunted me all my life.  I actually have this strangely silly fear that I won't read borrowed books -- that'll they'll merely exist as mocking reminders of my nobler intensions, on my bookshelf.
 
The shared community of the borrowed book.  Thousands of eyes skim through its words.  All of us borrowing from its moments and curves of language, disengaging in a thousand private moments to lift that mug to your lips or to stare at the next passer-by.  Epiphanies discharged, scattered on a page.  Perhaps.