We launched leggings! Step into a world of individuality.

MY BLACK BOOK 24 TO 28

24th installmet
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

HERE THIS PROJECT SEEN AS DECIDED UPON EARLIER….

I have just this minute worked out why I telephone you so often and at such odd moments (and _do _ at once, again apologize). It is how; when, I used to suddenly grab at a pen, and scribble; even if on a bus ticket; Chinese restaurant menu… Even if it does effect that extra verbal as well closeness, bonus to merely reading the words you had written. My
letters always were there at the proper time because they were always opened when you felt like doing so: telephones and door-bells have a habit of making us feel like by the nose as are animals with rings in them are we pulled to obey. I remember once making a point of writing down somewhere: I am not at home, because you knock on the door; I am at home as I open the door, somewhere.

Carole, of Carole & Francis who were here when you were, telephones a few times a week to Helen. When I say I f e e l the irritation each time I hear the phone ring, I’m telling you I understand the irritation that I am the cause of. It can, has happened to me while I was busily concentrating writing. The irritation might even have been you if you’d been as unthinking as I have been. I did not broadcast my telephone number when I reconnected it. Except for my youngest brother, to whom I gave it one day, you are the only one who has it.

Don’t want to carry-on; just want you to see I suddenly realize the pain I’ve been. Sorry!

*

[105129122005

Approx ii words per line \ 31,2 lines per page
Fol. Hem’s Green Hills of Africa

Turquoice=added writing
“TURQUOICE” ID-IED some writing
Notebooks and Last Will and Testament of
Andrew J.Prufrock.
[Of Rendsburg/G, Penang/M and Perth/A.(Alabama!)]
The Epitaph

DRAFTS SOME DAFT SOME RE-WRITTEN SOME DON’T NEED RE-WRITING SOME GOOD

ALL STILL IN THE GRIND AS THOUGH STILL AT GAZA, HE, EYELESS.

JOHN T. and
I
and JOHN T.

Memories. Wall-speak. Peripheries and other fences. Does “environmental” = Churchill looking more like his dog, now? Are all also milestones; an itinerary? An identity here, Learning identities.

INTRO.

3rd Person narrative, the writer alive in the text, sometimes. In the 1st Person, then. He is a poet. Tiresius? Cleaner; lollipop-man (in good company, he feels): remember TS and the philosopher who shared a classroom with Hitler?

(Idealistically) the writer writes to him-/her- self: “h’self”, can avoid gender
altogether: [“ ‘E ”; “ ’e ” for He/She: he/she—] as well as [ “ h’s ” for his, hers.]

Essentially, Barthes has the writer as dead. The writer. We are dead. I used to write it as we don’t exist: eavesdroppers and readers do, beside, after us; as merely readers (although the cultural baggage with which they perceive are as much of cultural discourses than of their own; as, as much as the writer posits a-page, therefore societal values
and…, than. we, this time
necessarily do exist, re-representations re-text; discourses, itch, demand that existential scratching..

I began with Sherwood Anderson, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, to check out connected short stories. Finding F Scot Fitzgerald’s Pat Hobby Stories and italo calvino’s Marcovaldo; am yet looking for young John Faulkner’s New Orleans Sketches (––found!––) and –– was it the Absurd Dramatist(?) who wrote Rhinoceros (that title coming to mind instead of the one I read: ever reading many plays, suddenly, just to read dialogue (––Weska’s!––), with short stories the blurb on the cover terms a‘surprising’ offering of short stories. Yes, this is the same meaning as Elizabeth Jolley’s written in fragments novel, although I had then also written poems and aphorisms. I only mention Faulkner (––as stated––found!) and Weska;(?)!; absurd, referring also to camus’ work: because I still may come across those books and find them appropriate. I have already formed the structure for my short stories: ever ready to change, though.

I read Hemingway, Anderson and Fitzgerald, at the same time, usually three stories each. By the time I was beginning calvino, I was just finishing the last of the first three. I have not yet found Joyce, either: although that would be a re-reading; as was much of Hemingway. I found Hemingway interposing italicized paragraphs in-between his Up In Michigan short stories. These italicized paragraphs had no direct bearing to the short stories. They were bits about the war in Europe and bullfighting and something else. Two of the short stories were about the war.

I am going to make use of this habit of italicized paragraphs in-between the stories, but for purposes of my own, maybe to talk about writing or introduce snippets, autobiographical ‘fragments’, maybe, like:

Immediately when in the Forker Friendship aeroplane that was taking me to Singapore for a connecting flight to Perth, I wrote a thank-you-letter to my parents saying…

Introduction story suggests whence stories hail from. The stories are either 3rd person John T Stories or 1st Person autobiographical. It is not, sometimes, that there are flat characters, but that then their importance is no more then any thing else, written. All, as though, the landmarks to the story unfolding.

*

1ST story re clak, -??? , plus

At once, I remember, I had seen Ronald Regan and Margaret Thatcher as Tom Sawyer & Becky Thatcher on seeing them meet during the Falklands War. It was therefore that I searched for reasons why they could be presented so. There are many kinds of realities or pages of representation suggesting ways of seeing: documenting therefore
how much could have engineered \ manipulated any page, screen, presentation of truth. One dictionary did allow me to use ‘Becky’ as short for ‘Margaret’ . So easily could they have been Tom Sawyer & Becky Thatcher: any role open to an actor: already that connection between

projection to now, to be of allegorical possibilities of, to, as; traveling extra-fiction, as it were? I saw her at his funeral on television, yesterday.

Mark Twain was born at a Haley’s Comet sighting, then died, at again, a Haley’s Comet sighting.

*

Taxi-drivers have recognized mom in their backseats with Aren’t you…? ––The thrill of being recognized! She used to write Hemingwayesque short stories, weekly… My niece’s future father-in-law (––then): here was such a reader, as they discovered during meetings of family elders. [Italics, for Hemingway, above, is because mother’s revering him is all I do know as a fact about her writing.]

My connection with this was Mercuric. I held Hemingway in my hands with the biography of Gertrude Stein that describes them (I read bits as I sat in the ferry crossing to Butterworth from Penang). Also, Stein receiving full-marks for writing on the pages that were to hold her essay I’m sorry, I’ve filled my mind with so much psychology, I just cannot get myself to write another word (––paraphrased). The Hemingway book was A Moveable Feast; the hardcover dust cover clearly quoting: every young man should visit Paris before he turns twenty-one: (so, memory recalls).

*

I saw her again. She entered the train even as the doors opened with some coming out. That is her! passed through my mind. She has grown taller: impossible! Was the train higher than the platform? Her shoes, maybe. I looked upward at her. Quite in profile, now. Snap memory put my first Helen into her dress. The head of hair, the shoulder of fabric, puffed, built towards the remembered portrait, the 3rd dimension, never known to me. Maybe her name; angel; then her Chinese name, Lim Cheng Swan, signaling ‘swan’: symbolically my description. Yes: Mariam Angelina Lim Ch…,was called Helen by all; was so introduced to me by me by my classmate, her cousin (I, quickly calling her god-sister, she having approached my mother to be her godmother for confirmation: both were sitting on the see-saw, she watching me watching her talking-Confirmation while I played football: the fence, a much abused hedge; two bushes in front it acting as goal-posts). She, second to Helen of Troy
: she, in the movie, always taken as Susannah Podesta: a recent check with a book of Films on TV showed that the girl starring, the one I fell in love with at 7 or 8 when they sent our school (primary; catholic; ‘Butterworth’) to the movies to celebrate some public holiday, was Brigid Bardot. An ‘It is fate then!’, (Anthony Quin’s words in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’)

[Not ‘Suzzana Podesta’, after all. The credits had ‘Brigitte Bardot’ also! ––So young! In primary school, I fell for… I did not know it was she! ––––Only this year. ––Just now! ––Checking out the others in the credits. The face I had chased all these years, always associated with the name of ‘Suzanah Podesta’! After all the years I’d placed Brigid Bardot as only second, always only because remembering the face of Helen of Troy and the name I’d learned to associate with it. ‘Suzzanah Podesta’ must have been the first name I saw when looking at the screen when the Brigitte Bardot face was there. It was –– is in fact –– all the time was the face of Brigitte Bardot (not even knowing the name then!) Always the same woman from the age of nine!]
*

I suddenly count to 1957, when Britain gave Independence to that colony, where, particularly Penang, was founded by the father of the founder of Adelaide, where my girl friend, Helen, of many enough years of mutual continuous founding, came from. Her uncle stayed next door to Norman Lindsay. I first saw Helen walking uphill to me sitting even higher than the road atop the room that was the canteen of FCB Indusries. Who then this Lindsay girl walking like straight up to me to my table? I was reading Edith Sitwell, on Alexander Pope, the poet; accompanied by my two-coffee-four-sugar stimulant.

You are going to become a drinker, my father told me, that is how it starts, two or three years earlier. I used to spend hours in a little room almost only as big as the table plus chair, books bought with my weekly pocket money, beginning to make up my first library
CHECK WITH ESSAY FOR HONOURS
(the current, my fifth or sixth), plus the ants that cleaned my table for me by the time I come home from school to lock myself away again. I think, that started from or coincidentally when I was grounded from going to see Helen (a previous Helen), agreeing not to see her again, seeing her again, admitting I was seeing her, agreeing I agreed not to see her again, saying I truthfully did say I was seeing her…

From now on, you will go to school and you will come straight home…

Yes, I will, equally forcefully, determinedly for opposite reasons.

And no going to see this woman and admitting you went to see her like you were telling the truth: the truth had better be that you come straight home.

I found clearly defined rules exhilarating. Now I could prove how bars did not a prison make; among my reading was Henri Troyat’s biography saying Leo Tolstoi told Henri Thoreau about a young Indian student, named Ghandi, starting an intercontinental correspondence.
*
I chased Poe’s Helen too, reaching no where; neither much further with Yeats’: saw, bought Helen by Jack Lindsay, towards the day I will attempt to know it all.

My mind’s recent constant interrogations re “Helen”, “Mary”, “Angel” (the ‘Helen, Mariam Angelina Lim Cheng Swan) caused the look of this woman I suddenly see enter the train before any even disembarked; caused this image to interlock with a sudden imposition of an image from the past. Suddenly, it was Helen Lim Cheng Swan: then somebody I have never met before (and other faces from the past; flashes), showing she saw I had taken her for someone else; for some reason, had a sympathetic look.

*

Immediately, when in the Forker Friendship aeroplane that was taking me to Singapore for a connecting flight to Perth, I wrote a thank-you-letter to my parents saying I must say a million million million million million…times thank you for… –– I was actually imagining them growing tired, still saying “You are welcome…You are…

The plane still had propellers. It seemed to be hovering up and down over the trees, dropping suddenly. “Air-pockets,” she said. I had never been on a plane before. I had read the philosophies and religions all night long, hoping to fall asleep all through the long flight from Singapore.

As the plane approached the causeway linking Singapore to the peninsula, I remembered that this was how the Japanese surprised the British in 1941. When I first recalled this thought, then, I had seen Lawrence of Arabia, the film, who had attacked Akhbar from the rear, which also had all their guns, pointed out to sea. As I think yet again now, I entertain the possibility that Britain intended the Japanese be contained somewhat by the burden of a city-full of POWs.

*

My writing fills the page as I sit down and write. Whatever goes through my head disappears when I attempt to repeat what I think of before; and, should I, remember, it would not come out as well as when I had mimed it. To precisely capture as remembered, or improve, with selection \ arrangement of words with the keen attention toward constituting an art form…

some of above did not reach maybe?

–ONE
“It was during the war. What was war As instructed, we were prostrate on the field that St Xavier’s boys and Light St Convent girls
played and exercised, when the planes first flew over. The noise The ground moved like it had came alive. I could not hear myself shouting. Just next to me, the boy’s leg was spliced open. I was a trainee nurse.

No, it was not he, my father, her ‘true love’. He came off a ship, they were yet to meet. There were all the reasons in the world why she should, not love, him, should in fact stay away from him. ––Penang, was a neutral port to him. The Japanese soldiers were all over the island. His free run of the place was because he was German. The other two destroyers ahead of the one he was on were bombed, and his, radioed from Germany to seek the shelter of the nearest neutral port.

The book my mother would write one day could? start? something like that. How did she meet him? What drew her to his side? I know/heard it was in hospital. I also know that that was the reason why the librarian from the American library USIS gave her that Hemingway book to read. I remember going through the pages while being punished: “Go and kneel down at the altar for half an hour!” The altar was atop the highest shelf of the bookshelf. I kept seeing the name, Catherine in it, and thought my elder brother should read it because his girlfriend was so named. I was very young. Farewell to Arms.

*

No, although my story has many similarities, as the founder of where my girlfriend came from is the son of he who founded Penang: she, a Norman Lindsay girl, straight out of Age of Consent. Her uncle stayed next door to the writer, artist, whatever else. Also, her parents wedding anniversary is at the end of the month that my parent’s, is the beginning. At the time, I met her, both houses were on streets at the end of suburbs: the next suburb, right across the street. We are both second born; she was to be a boy, and I, a girl; her elder sister already a girl; my elder, a boy. As it occurred, when we met, her hair was all but crewcut, and mine was below my shoulders. Ophelia! From Adelaide. I know: Shakespeare and Lartes had one; Hamlet, ‘almost’ and ‘not quite’: Polonius, that is, had her as daughter; Lartes, as sister; Hamlet played the boyfriend who tried to show he did not care \ could not make up his mind, as he tried to make out he was mad: under seeming madness to study, seek out the guilt; his father, murdered.

I also have a book I will write one day. (True, it seems!)

[–two]

John T remembers he could not cross the stream.

[[YOU’VE BEEN HERE, BUT SOME DIFFERENCE OD INFO SEEMS TO FOLLOW]]It had thick floats of green moss. There were ducks. His mother, his father, his brother, on t’otherside. John T thinks he remembers this in the Third Person. In memory John T tries each time to note whether or not he was crying.

There was a girl. Cynthia ––(No, not yet.). ––Anje! She had a doll’s house; it was a house set on a table.
It had a set of long narrow drawers drawn out from the front of the building. Tea, coffee, sugar he still recalls the overwhelming café aroma & other items per drawer. Two girls there: neither, the one mentioned. John T’s cousins. Anna und Anje; the dolls’ house, the latter’s; her mother it was used to take hold of John T and say, Mein! Mein! Much did John T look like her, dad’s second eldest sister. She ws strong as an ox, his mother said repeatedly; she could beat the egg white so powerfully strongly that in no time the fork would stand rigid still in the middle of the bowl.

I was always in my room either above or lower was there a middle one where the ladder lead to upper beds; I only remembering my elder brother Albin saying I want this one! \ This one is mine!, nothing making me remember his selection.

I remember my nose, mostly. I had developed the disgusting habit of digging my nose and eating of it as though not all the food resources \ unexpected source of immunity awaited deduced detection. It was also the preoccupation with my nose, my fast growing, not yet cut, fingernails scratching, letting out blood, that had me up late and out with the adults, partying, my mother the least happy to see me, it looked like to me. There was a definite elder couple who seemed to take charge, and to smile things into place. I do not know what I should make of them, writing now only of that little piece of memory because also fitting that hospitable and benevolent role was that couple next door to Rosemary in that doleful tale about her first baby.

Very nice, she, but much nicer in X,Y and Z, with Michael Cain and Elizabeth Taylor. Her name will come soon. However, a medical person was sent for or came with the group that followed me to my room. Now I remember. My mother was not there, partying. She came in the room now noising, demanding what I had done. It occurred that the man who came in with my mother was a doctor.

It came to me that the doctor exactly what mother would need; the doctor had exactly what my mother would need for my finger, for keeping that finger from inside my nose. He put something bitter on my finger; something creamy to fill my nose. Again, I have to confess that I felt, physically felt deduction go through its moves: as the doctor, who came into the room with my mother instead of being with the party I was taken to to be by her, spoke the words to my mother, I knew what he was saying and, the bitterness, mush of cream, verified for me the exactness of my prediction, the night before. It was a kind of tinge-nerve feeling, like that feeling you will want to have a pee soon, that manifested itself in the middle of my forehead; that physical feeling thing I felt feeling deduction taking place, as it were; just like it felt many years later when I was looking for my rosary, closing my eyes tight and praying to find it: I felt that same feel again and this time it twinged like a key turned and I knowingly saw the rosary there/ would be there, under the shirt that would be there when I opened the cupboard door. No, I do not think ESP is answering these events for me: sudden knowledge is how it best explains itself to me, quite aware of the other phrases. The only other thing I remember of being on that ship is being carried, being passed, strong arms holding me; legs walking, carrying my eyes looking down, making me feel giddy. Who is carrying me? All ways, again. The pendulum. To the other side; to the other side; fearfully; again; thinking I could easily fall off this tree high shelter(?) , fully, supposedly, securing my descent from Table Mountain. Only made of hull, as though, the ship. Some few things, they probably need, to live in, on top. The last impression of the ship, very few seeing it had me on board all the way to Penang. Not yet of The Federation of Malaya; much less of Malaysia; and, they only referred to the peninsula as Malaysia Barat after I was sent to Australia, aged ____; the forerunner of the family. I had failed my Senior Cambridge Leaving Examination in Malaysia as well as the___________, the less demanding, lower, local exam, allowable then with a pass in the National Language. Only I knew I was going to fail. As shocked as my father were my teachers. Most shocked was Mr. Michael Quah, who noticed my letters to the newspapers after school finished but before the results. He had let a good deal of my writing attempts (one, unsuitable, before I realized him, adamant re the theme) into a magazine he had founded with us: The Leaven. Mr. Michael Quah had written such glorious words in the testimonial we went around to have filled by select teachers to be transcribed and printed to accompany our Leaving Certificates. —Strong, honest, able, dynamic, industrious, intelligent, recommendable… I was disappointed but should not have expected those words allowed to accompany a result that was a failure. But, I had stood up and faced the failed result: I had expected it. I was disappointed Brother Director could not do the same: it was no less, a true award.

Talk to them in English.

They don’t understand English very
well..

You only have to talk to them.

Quickly will they reply the same
language.

This dialogue is fresh in my head, except I finally realize that the reason why I understood what was being said was because we were supposed to understand a bit of English. Each time before this I remembered this to the divergence that I had an innate ability to understand what was being said before being taught to speak English.

We were on a wharf. I remember those metal lines on the ground
as those trains run on. My mind still remembers other vehicles than trains using those tracks, and I don’t remember rememberig this aBOUT A LATER TIME, WHEN THEY PROBABLY USED WHEELS, ANYWAY.

wE ALL, WE BOYS, were WEARING these German ansuchs. mine was green. a dark green. i do not seem to know the colours of the other’s suits. i do know mine was grun, i remember once quarrelling that someone had mine on. mine ist grun! i do asalso a blasphemeous voice say they ewere allk the dsaame, there was the suggestion of creating a fuss. i do not see a ggod CHANCE winniung M Y caSE, I DON’T. I AM GLAD i do not remember the outcome of that event,.

THREE

I wanted to ask something silly (one always not yet knows…): Could cancer reach, juxtapose its luggage, de-malignantize if…?

His doctor had summoned the family’s presence (not all of us were there: so why did I, who is only paid the hours I work, have to leave work?) to forecast the imminent end?

I did not ask the question. Dad died three or four weeks later than doctor predicted. Died on his very birthday, as people are wont to suggest: as I had hoped for dad, as his birthday approached and the time the doctor had forecast passed and allowed for a poetic ending.

\ watching the body, exhumed. Not exactly a matter of Martian eyes spying a metal bird swoop down upon the body then exhuming for like reason. Exaggerating the possibilities of time-l

Is birth
where death
went to
be
come

here
then?

births & deaths fly catapult thru with outer space and inner worlds of chromosome particles and what’s so small as spirited atoms

We just buried him last Friday. Close by, somebody noticed, was a grave with mother’s name on it: and the grave was her choice. Been here before: again! Time’s moving backwards; clairvoyants may again remember! I’m supposed to rectify something; I must have asked a chance to re-live a moment in the past: it only allowed, to show me I’ll just repeat everything again –– de jevu, reminds \ asks \ taunts: had you such obligations?

their future = the past + its Adam’s part fleshing by at death

my life is for constant examination

There was the Rosary Service, the day before the funeral; removing the coffin lid, afterwards, for the immediate family. The day itself had the chosen hymns, songs (Sink the Bismarck, a whispered last minute request for when the coffin left the church: I am withholding analysis), mass with readings by grandchildren; first, the eldest of the eldest male grandson had the same name; all arranged by son number four who by poetic irony had the same name as the father of the deceased. Ghostlyly/surrealistically, a young looking father buries his elderly lookng son

I was on the other side of the grave, mainly to make room for the others having now found myself well ahead of the parade walking the hearse. As I looked up mum was diagonally opposite, much supported \ held on to by the sister of the eldest son of the eldest son, the eldest of the other sisters. Mum was holding her handbag up against the sun.

Now I think it is instead do I recognize the bag (?) (Helen and I, having bought her so many for presents) that made me comment on it, like the wife, the ceiling, when sex is the meal, something that maybe has to do with I can be house-proud!, Surely, I did not avoid commenting that mum’s companion and prop and now _daughter she never had, was looking extra beautiful: many have been saying how like the one was the other. What do you mean, the wrong time!, the wrong place! ––Ain’t something special happening here: God, he still sits in His Heaven. He be receiving! We, sending! Have sent what _on his ownsome souled, once did sail the seven Seas…

I used to work in the cemetery before I did different casual work everyday unless it did carry on to the next day. That was also before I worked at the cardboard factory at the Carrington St side of the cemetery; or, walked letterbox delivery, delivered & washed for the Chinese restaurant (isn’t this a French word?); cleaned some shopping centres, university buildings, Broadway Tavern; guided school kids across the streets: all Nedlands; Claremont (French, again) within, also Monash Avenue, the UWA and Bayview Terrace; not forgetting Carrington St. One of the students at the primary school was named Clermont. Her mum told me she would have to study five hours more at home each evening in France, and I had said Good! having studied most of my life much more than when at school.

At what I tentatively called a conceited moment I said they manufactured the computer so they could catch up with me, who bragged they’d never read a book \ laughed at me, never without one. Convenient, they need only cite book and page. Then I found Internet not linked to the catalogues of the libraries. Optimism had expected connection would allow me to cite the catalogue of the US Library of Congress to peruse under ‘Kennedy, R. F. ––No, I think they will never catch-up: you have to know, to think to cite. It is no accident that the porn site is the one most hit site. ––All, a matter of gawk, honk and thingk big. Whence then the thingkS to think different of any girl enough for more than a bonkING relationship. As Sir said, no man will respect a slut for very long; the counterpart finds the question of his (–that!) use date is wrongly located in the column accounting for days

––Not at all, an impossible NEO origin of the rudeness against parents –– therefore ––hypocritical, pretentious.

Helen’s Joe’s funeral, I had just attended two weeks prior. Douglas’ Helen died about a week after dad. I did not think Joe’s Helen was as miserable as indicated. On reaching her with Helen (mine), at Joe’s grave, over our few words I noticed how red and tear worn was her daughter’s face, thinking how easily such observation could read cynically. Such a reading could also have been made of my mother having enough state of mind to block off the sun at her husband’s burial. The sudden gesture could be a reflex a writer wants to use to suggest observations to do with subtlety and sensitivity. Both Joe’s Helen, and mum had husbands now free of long post-stroke endurance ending with liver disease \ cancer that had reached the liver, and now progressed to the brain. There must have been some relief on their husbands’ behalf mixed with the uncontrollable reaction at death’s sudden black enlightenment. “Don’t go from me, Joe; Joe, don’t leave me alone,” I heard Helen shout out
spontaneously. My mother shouted something in German my own thoughts now do not recall. I had grown quiet. I was remembering I had earlier said I may have to stay away from the funeral. I did not want to run around shouting. Much earlier on, on my youngest brother’s visit from Queensland (my father’s first cancer hospitalization summoning this), just talking with him, the space in the room, en masse, rushed to enclose itself around \ make my immediate space a coffin. I ran out of my flat up and down the passage outside the flats, himself chasing me; running any direction then as confronting is what stopped me in front of him asking me to breathe in deeply.

I also forgive myself. But when mouthing the words now leading to softly singing along to Lolita’s rendition of the song Sailor, I was fighting to control my falling tears, which, unfortunately was the way my eyes have always behaved during that song. This time without the verbal bit, thank God:

_Sailor Sailor, Your home is the deep blue sea ship is
your sip is yr …………. And the stars are your best friends…

The same emotion hit me as suddenly as I followed my elder brother the father of the eldest son of the eldest son whose sister the oldest girl, constantly supporting, sill, of my mother. Each time I turned and combed the landscape fills of crosses again (verily knotted hair) each time but a wedge yet: several with angels. Their arms around the crosses in support like the arms of my eldest brother’s eldest daughter, around my mother. In a twinkling, as looked I around this place of death. I was looking down into the hole, (open: the jaws of the grave!)
my father in the box far down there, deep. Is it our desert that we be took and…(?) Was fear autobiographical, having given up smoking later than the others; now, forebodence than father and son bonding. I must surely, at least get some, writing published, first! No! It was as though death had not happened before. Suddenly death was as good as, illegal, shoved upon you by some unwelcome intruder; Hack! It, must be it is different when it happens to yours, you then, tagged: whatever your reaction, its own grade of hysteria; not being responsible \ surrealistic truth, the peripheries (?).

Now plethoric spectrum, the key phraseology.

I still think it a lot of sacred fuss over what is in the same category as fingernails, now snipped off: the skin lies vacant, the snake having moved on. Again.

[‘Helen’, by the way is also the fifth most common name in Australia. When writing eldest of the eldest I was thinking of the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter: if you can imagine that occurring, is accounted by Chinese tradition as a sign of great auspiciousness.]

They says that royalty doffs their clothes as theys walks along, and the valet (person paid to be French!) or what theys calls the gentleman’s gentleman, follows, picks up after them. Is death when someone takes that don’t look back royal(?) prerogative, suddenly; extraterrestrial, the walkabout. ––Immediate initiation into alien consciousness? The whisk!-equivalent of instant combustion. ––The soul, him gone thing!

––Into the next dimension? ––“Sliders”? ––Wassabout the snake, mate?

Death is u ain’t here;
fingernails are things too!

Maybe you just pulled
yrseself into being
so I could visit

Maybe we’s near dead
blowin’ air to keep goin’
one whole more moment.
Blowin’ DEATH further:
now soo good at it
all automatic
we calls it ‘breathing’

Where did he exhale
what he’d last inhaled?

No, I do not just
believe
that faith can
really move mountains.

I needs to have it writ somewhere. I am German, but there is someone in Alabama with exactly the same name as me, who also writes poetry. It is insufficient to leave the country in the balls of the parent when the said was eighteen years old. The fella had a brother and a brother, and maybe some others, carrying around kin sperms, scrotumed. One fling could well have chanced and permutated another me, in Alabama, while I was forced to play dice with death in the scrotum of the uniform of my father. I could well have been born in Montmarte.

I put my name on the Internet to see if someone had logged me on as a poet. P____, of the computing section of Reid Library told me once she would put me in the computer, sited with Artlook Magazine, December, 1978, with my poem. ––As you get more into print, I will add the information under your name. I am sure she was sincere. Every one was trying to help me do something else than clean. I guess the thrill overcame the reality; the potential, so blinding I did not pass on the particulars until it seemed I’d left it too late. Also, one poem does not make a poet. I found it exceedingly difficult to write at all after I saw my name in print. Some snoop now… seems madam, nay it is something self-conscious I becomes then to heads that seemed, and eyes that also weren’t there, deriding my endeavour.

Nor death nor fire can rid the words writ on this page

Suddenly no more shared by feedback to the senses

Life is eternal: death is but the mask at life’s ball

Only hidden like the poet is never seen
anywhere at all except in the words that he writes

Nothing comes after moments like moments of love

Birth is one’s death of one’s world in the womb
––Nor did one experience sperm or ovum

As alive as Sherlock! ?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
25th insallment

there also an earlier hemingway poem…..

Hemingway. 1.
Butterworth, Kennikworth, are the same
names on streets where we both used to live.
Mother wrote to write like Hemingway.
I read the books. –Room, high in attic.
Met Gertrude Stein. Boxed. Walked miles and miles.
Went to the races. Wrote. Dawn to noon.
It does not matter how much you drink;
You can always walk it off, next day.
I refused to accept H. as man.
Despite my mother’s best friend’s husband’s
Constant: They want them big[!]/ want them strong[!].
Covet a façade, and buy a mask.
Test all arguments against themselves,
And, all assertions, their opposites.
I was seriously writing down rules,
Reading philosophies and S. Freud.
At once, I coined ‘vagina envy’.
I had seen more envy of sisters
(not thinking ‘run down, to keep from me’).
They’d written cheap and easy-to-reads
just using the first two thousand words.
Who? ­Some American library group.
Fifteen cents, a book. ­In ’66.
Highlighted, masculinity’s too akin to masking.
The perennial story still making the man.
The Sargent-major does not bark anymore.
His stops and sleep always took more day.
Like she said. Look at the clowns two eyes.
When they asked her why she was crying.
We have pointed out what makes Romance
And crime detection, and what’s Horror…
Put them together and discover:
Bullets shot from the proscribed distance
Versus the choicest closeness of film…
True horror’s seeing we long took things wrong.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
tutor:

“….. invent!; you’ve naught to recall
if, already ‘ve a store house full of
people / ages happy to help without
yea, producing paperwork evidence
only if they want to check your blood type,
then it’s time to want to write a report”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwA/
26th installment(s)
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I put my name on the Internet to see if someone had logged me on as a poet. P____, of the computing section of Reed Library told me once she would put me in the computer, sited with Artlook Magazine, December, __, with my poem. “As you get more printed I will add the information to your name.” I am sure she was sincere. Every one was trying to help me do something else than clean. I guess the thrill overcame the reality; the potential, so blinding I did not pass on the particulars until it seemed I’d left it too late. Also, one poem does not make a poet. I found it exceedingly difficult to write at all after I saw my name in print. Someone seemed to be looking over my shoulder.

He is coming to lunch, at Kennilworth, [HC] for Mother’s Day, tomorrow: father. He is out for two hours by arrangement from Royal Perth Hospital. He is coming to lunch, and I could still have that heart attack, so due, before that. Dad’s stroke is what he had. Will I survive what I could have, by tomorrow? I must still be close to hundred and twenty kilograms. I have stayed off sugars. I have just scoffed $6.00 of ham, and maybe 10 chicken wings, grilled though they were. I should be watching my diabetes. If fat man’s diabetes, it is. Vegetables and fruit; grilled fish; soups; plenty of pears and asparagus: herbs, garlic, onion, ginger. And I can cook; even good meals; even Chinese, using pasta! : a lesser foe to diabetes. ––I suddenly remember I used to read soap for soup for a long time, and laugh for lunch; the second I can clearly say was when reading my first Denis The Menace giant issue comic. Have you tried eating chunky broken bits of garlic in your sandwich?

FOUR

I had written that as I traveled to Perth, a body was dug-up at Lake Mungo….; ‘beautiful………..’ ‘buried from her people’. ––Ask Blainy! ––…Nomads They just mentioned his name concerning his latest: A Short History Of The World on News Radio. It was a perceptual coincidence; even if on twin-screens eyes saw only moments separate watching the landing of QANTAS inks….

(I wrote a poem in which my mother walked the beach on Rothnest; she and her daughter-in-law, who grew up there, walked through each other without any physical contact. It was an abstract projected perception, stipulating both visions in the same time-space slot.put together like jigsaw: if Consciousness includes what we are not \ not immediately aware of, was it coincidence or some poetic unconscious probe that I did make use of ‘jigsaw’; maybe to connote on my use of ‘seesaw’ to describe the British, imperialist position)could be as credible as the mythology that does lure you. ‘Resurrection’ and ‘reunification’. Ancient history has the presence of Europeans in this region; has one captain map and name Malaysia (Malaya, that is: the peninsula) The Golden Chessonnis. To show that things are the case despite what is written in our (history, and…) books: there is a wall in Peru longer than The Great Wall of China; Greenland is extant on three islands; the giant Prime Minister Frazer stone lookalikes with those stone tubs in balance above their heads along tracks that go downhill, are a landing runway for when UFO’s (‘ufo’ in the dictionary, also means ‘unidentified flying object’; origin. Jap.) did visit Earth.

The arrangement had Britain as the fulcrum (as the seesaw): all here before the British came, aborigines: all, after, immigrants. ‘Multiculturalism’, instead of an ingenious egocentric pattern of the settled Anglo-Saxon, is the bloodless 1688 kind: a battle, unnecessary. One perceives one gets away with much more if one follows the example of God instead of His priests, terrestrially housing Him despite the insistence that the sky, His roof; the earth his footstool. One, again, thinks that a greater Aesop wrote Aladdin: that God still will not be conned to show that he can fit into a bottle. God! Would have easily got out of the bottle, twisted tight at the speed of sound \ light, or not. To follow Britain’s example then: one arrived in Australia, as something new; one did not join the Aboriginal; put another way, no one deflowers a woman for me: Cultural Studies says I am talking as one, of a group, since otherwise one person can only speak for h’self.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
INSTALLMENT 27TH
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
FIVE

Two stacks of those boxes of books at 60 Terrace Rd once had a box atop them with dictionary books against the back against the window. I sat there, writing then, looking out at the Esplanade, congested with school girls, school uniform colours, and legs and arms and legs and arms and legs and many variations of girls’ voices. Hockey, Baseball (–Soft?). They probably still use Saturday mornings like that. They were too much of the forest for me to search out a tree. ––Maybe if I had binoculars? There was a powerful one once at home at Butterworth, Malaysia, when that English family stayed a few days, when travelling through. I could tell the time from the tower clock above a building along the road running along the side of the island of Penang, facing Butterworth; where the ferries also embarked \ disembarked trucks, cars, and people. The ferry took me to school, brought me home…––us! Penang took Butterworth students mainly to St Xavier’s (Bros. Sch.), Light St Con
vent, and a Technical Institute, Butterworth supplying mostly primary school education. The traditional rivalry was between Penang Free School and St Xavier’s Institution. Mum used to take us to the oval of Penang Free School come evening, then (or, often enough to remember) to run and play. The Duke of Edinborough came there when we were a wee bit older and buried a tree there. Mum broke the line that day, and rushed out to steal a look of the Duke. ––Which one? ––He turned and looked; he smiled. I remember buildings facing each other at the oval, and lines of trees all round the rectangular oval, except the main building, also used as the grandstand. The steps leading to the buildings around the oval did also serve as seating. They played their cricket, hockey, football and rugby, there; no doubt sometimes loosing to St Xavier’s there too. They clapped us in after the whistle blew the Under-Eighteen Rugby Championship in their favour. My name printed as the fullback who always hindered their progress. The captain put the newspaper under my nose and demanded I telephoned the newspaper to correct the absence of his name. It seems they shouted my name so much during the game, the reporters assumed I was the captain. The ovals that remind me most of the mentioned Free-School oval are the one within …….

……streets, if it had the Forrest Place architecture ; colonial; the same all over the British Empire. ––Built out of a handbook. Therefore, maybe, the general nature of British education; to be able to understand \ interpret widely.

.[I was also in the school team when they were runners-up in the Under-Fifteen Football Championship.]

We lived Green Lane at the time; they were PWD Quarters. We’d rhetoricize we climbed one hundred stairs to reach our top of the stairs home. We killed bees with our badminton rackets. Gunther killed a snake with an axe. Someone lifted an overlarge bamboo pole and that someone had to let go of the overlarge pole he could not lift for long, on somebody’s head.

Our University of WA was known as the only free university in the Southern Hemisphere: already put elsewhere; Adelaide was founded by the son of Sir Francis Light, founder of Penang, an earlier colony. My mother grew up there. My grandpa taught my future headmaster at St Xavier’s; there were quarters for him just outside the school, bombed in the Second World War. The talk is he had just invested in some rural property far south of the island, to the disapproval of most relatives who speeded there imminently as the war came to the island. Yes, I had the privilege of the many fruit trees he planted. Chikus, star fruit, jambus, jack fruit, durians, sugarcane, rambutans, bananas…
Yes gradpa had the respect of all the people around Sungai Nibong, including the ……….at the mosque. The word, idealize was used. When I came from Germany, he was headmaster at a small island off Sungai Nibong, Pulau Jerjak, where also were isolated TB and leprosy patients. Not clearly do I remember about the time he took me there, rising one cold, dark morning; which time I mentally associate with reading +_Heart of Darkness._ Just up the road from here is where they built the bridge to the Butterworth.

SIX
[-0.1\\1.3]

John T’s just flicked five twenties, a fifty and one ten cent coin, all, into his left hand to throw into the open top side pocket of the shoulder bag that he always carries around.

He had woken later than he would have wanted. The tape was hanging out of the video, and the ABC 0430 o’clock old movie had long started; one of John T’s clocks, that try to wake him: the radio-clock succeeding, mostly. This time John taped the whole of A Tale of Two Cities. There must be bits on tape already, somewhere! John T keeps recognizing more early influences on him.

Some books pillows, an entire sheet; papers, now crushed \ now down but not crushed (one, torn as scissors would cut) all knocked off this side of the bed: some little walk-through left where the television & video comp. sits in balance on a stack of boxes against the wall. There is no room when bed is king and king is hog! Nor is this an inventory: only what immediately confronts John T as he fights to get out the gasps of clinging sheets, pillows, blankets, towels; trying also to avoid, each time, crunching video cassettes, and sleep attempts that try, possibly: knees? legs? arms? as bookmarks, the pages not even read.

Not only that the past communicates in the winking of an eye: also any ensemble of anticipations that regularly does recur. Maybe death does so fleetingly flush through that selected litany of scenes of whatever genre it sets has in fact

Call the T & G Building, ‘Mercury’, the way it fits to fill as it were the middle vertical space of the building presuming to scratch should the sky itch: the skyscraper towering behind it. Not among the largest planets, Mercury; here, in ratio to largeness: so, as just the mercury content of the thermometer, the T & G building stands fixed against the higher building!
*
oh!, the T & G Buildig was the tallest in Perth when John arrived in 1968, that year of ‘Marin,Bob and John’also welcoming babk himself, Dion.

It is as said: many of us sat around some four desks, some of us closer than mates: night school. Not just coeducation; a father/son couple actualy sat together. St Geo Tce, just before the King St turn off.
*
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
WRITER’S ASIDE

“my novel is autobiographical/fiction/invention (as I’ve already said tutor said: or will be so saying) to invent than write experiences which none have sufficient of. I already have a store house full of people/ages happy to help without producing paperwork evidence only really needful if they also want to check your blood which the cannine know better by their nose, one suspects; birds do dress ups / decor, when the female honorarily decides what’d escutcheon more / tolerate less, then launch their feathery heradry, their bugles natural/musical”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
INSTALLMENT 27TH
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
FIVE

Two stacks of those boxes of books at 60 Terrace Rd once had a box atop them with dictionary books against the back against the window. I sat there, writing then, looking out at the Esplanade, congested with school girls, school uniform colours, and legs and arms and legs and arms and legs and many variations of girls’ voices. Hockey, Baseball (–Soft?). They probably still use Saturday mornings like that. They were too much of the forest for me to search out a tree. ––Maybe if I had binoculars? There was a powerful one once at home at Butterworth, Malaysia, when that English family stayed a few days, when travelling through. I could tell the time from the tower clock above a building along the road running along the side of the island of Penang, facing Butterworth; where the ferries also embarked \ disembarked trucks, cars, and people. The ferry took me to school, brought me home…––us! Penang took Butterworth students mainly to St Xavier’s (Bros. Sch.), Light St Con
vent, and a Technical Institute, Butterworth supplying mostly primary school education. The traditional rivalry was between Penang Free School and St Xavier’s Institution. Mum used to take us to the oval of Penang Free School come evening, then (or, often enough to remember) to run and play. The Duke of Edinborough came there when we were a wee bit older and buried a tree there. Mum broke the line that day, and rushed out to steal a look of the Duke. ––Which one? ––He turned and looked; he smiled. I remember buildings facing each other at the oval, and lines of trees all round the rectangular oval, except the main building, also used as the grandstand. The steps leading to the buildings around the oval did also serve as seating. They played their cricket, hockey, football and rugby, there; no doubt sometimes loosing to St Xavier’s there too. They clapped us in after the whistle blew the Under-Eighteen Rugby Championship in their favour. My name printed as the fullback who always hindered their progress. The captain put the newspaper under my nose and demanded I telephoned the newspaper to correct the absence of his name. It seems they shouted my name so much during the game, the reporters assumed I was the captain. The ovals that remind me most of the mentioned Free-School oval are the one within …….

……streets, if it had the Forrest Place architecture ; colonial; the same all over the British Empire. ––Built out of a handbook. Therefore, maybe, the general nature of British education; to be able to understand \ interpret widely.

.[I was also in the school team when they were runners-up in the Under-Fifteen Football Championship.]

We lived Green Lane at the time; they were PWD Quarters. We’d rhetoricize we climbed one hundred stairs to reach our top of the stairs home. We killed bees with our badminton rackets. Gunther killed a snake with an axe. Someone lifted an overlarge bamboo pole and that someone had to let go of the overlarge pole he could not lift for long, on somebody’s head.

Our University of WA was known as the only free university in the Southern Hemisphere: already put elsewhere; Adelaide was founded by the son of Sir Francis Light, founder of Penang, an earlier colony. My mother grew up there. My grandpa taught my future headmaster at St Xavier’s; there were quarters for him just outside the school, bombed in the Second World War. The talk is he had just invested in some rural property far south of the island, to the disapproval of most relatives who speeded there imminently as the war came to the island. Yes, I had the privilege of the many fruit trees he planted. Chikus, star fruit, jambus, jack fruit, durians, sugarcane, rambutans, bananas…
Yes gradpa had the respect of all the people around Sungai Nibong, including the ……….at the mosque. The word, idealize was used. When I came from Germany, he was headmaster at a small island off Sungai Nibong, Pulau Jerjak, where also were isolated TB and leprosy patients. Not clearly do I remember about the time he took me there, rising one cold, dark morning; which time I mentally associate with reading +_Heart of Darkness._ Just up the road from here is where they built the bridge to the Butterworth.

SIX
[-0.1\\1.3]

John T’s just flicked five twenties, a fifty and one ten cent coin, all, into his left hand to throw into the open top side pocket of the shoulder bag that he always carries around.

He had woken later than he would have wanted. The tape was hanging out of the video, and the ABC 0430 o’clock old movie had long started; one of John T’s clocks, that try to wake him: the radio-clock succeeding, mostly. This time John taped the whole of A Tale of Two Cities. There must be bits on tape already, somewhere! John T keeps recognizing more early influences on him.

Some books pillows, an entire sheet; papers, now crushed \ now down but not crushed (one, torn as scissors would cut) all knocked off this side of the bed: some little walk-through left where the television & video comp. sits in balance on a stack of boxes against the wall. There is no room when bed is king and king is hog! Nor is this an inventory: only what immediately confronts John T as he fights to get out the gasps of clinging sheets, pillows, blankets, towels; trying also to avoid, each time, crunching video cassettes, and sleep attempts that try, possibly: knees? legs? arms? as bookmarks, the pages not even read.

Not only that the past communicates in the winking of an eye: also any ensemble of anticipations that regularly does recur. Maybe death does so fleetingly flush through that selected litany of scenes of whatever genre it sets has in fact

Call the T & G Building, ‘Mercury’, the way it fits to fill as it were the middle vertical space of the building presuming to scratch should the sky itch: the skyscraper towering behind it. Not among the largest planets, Mercury; here, in ratio to largeness: so, as just the mercury content of the thermometer, the T & G building stands fixed against the higher building!
*
oh!, the T & G Buildig was the tallest in Perth when John arrived in 1968, that year of ‘Marin,Bob and John’also welcoming babk himself, Dion.

It is as said: many of us sat around some four desks, some of us closer than mates: night school. Not just coeducation; a father/son couple actualy sat together. St Geo Tce, just before the King St turn off.
*
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

28

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwA/

SEEVEN

Today, John T kept falling towards his right. Flopping rightwards each time, John T fought himself up, erect, at every \ every other step.
––Supporting himself by holding at the bookshelf, cupboard, wall, stack of boxes, the doorway of the toilet see SHOWER; sliding his hand along the wall as he moved to sit down. Something to think about, ask the doctor. Yes, the Tower of Pisa did visit his consciousness. That what’s took in with John T’s beam…up, Scotty: also what you don’t wanna see on your plate is there! ‘Take this cup from me’ = acknowledging the presence bid against. John T did not rally worry. He’’s earned to blame the fan for many things, especially when billowing these winters. Actually, John T enjoyed a slight aberration from the usual, as: when he limped a while after the car had knocked him hard against the handle-bar he felt a steel girdle presence for a long while, across his chest, even longer than he limped Lautrec! ––‘Toulouse’ ….he kept muttering (…

EIGHT

Just saw the rainbow again. This time as though plumb in the middle of my father’s grave. The last time I took issue with it, was when it had moved further back from King’s Park; as though, soon to where was my father’s room in Mount Hospital. His cancer had moved from his neck to his lings to his liver, to his brain. They had let him out, told him the……………had worked miraculously. Yesterday, they told him he had but a week. He had told me he was waiting complete cure before accompanying mum to Malaysia. St Anne’s feast, July, Bukit Mertajam. I still feel the pinch of the irony, writing he thought his patience, rewarded. I was wondering, as Dr left from the room we were summoned to for the family conference, saying she was going to let him know. I did not say much, taking my leave, pretending not to notice tension; my mother sitting with him; my brothers still talking at the visitor’s lounge. It was the next time I saw him, he reminded me of cell occupant: N
orth Tower 105. ––The next morning.

NINE

Having allowed herself to, her perceives now focus from that realignment; different from that I just want to, ok! I heard Virginia’s friend-who-reminds-me-of-that-girl-in-Cimmeron sa y, with some irritation, to another girl. And that change registered itself on photos I took. Never so calm (“ .”) her face. Suggests this that dif between rape and honeymoon, then, when mothers handed down \ or didn’t let him do what he wants?

no not necessarily vulgar
too lift the fabric to kiss her lips
small is that sometimes cotton cloth too
with moistnesses trapped inside its threads

a little gift of a handkerchief
: the stolen kiss beneath the veil
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxt

Currently unavailable for purchase



i am AS i am (discovery than platform): I sculpt chisel my letters (runes?) ’sthough on stone, remembered when vanishes elrctricity; paper; canvass; memory

View Full Profile

Comments

  • jedidiah morley
    jedidiah morleyover 2 years ago

    fascinating to read, thank you for sharing such ideas/experience
    I will come back to read deeper and more fully
    thank you

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10%off for joining

the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.