She wanted to expedite the death of the cockroach. Watching from her kneeling position on the floor she was a hunched mother beneath the burning candles in a cathedral. Enthralled, the writhing of the cockroach was basically a physical tintinnabulation on her skin, a psychosomatic playing out of her own pain. She debunked the notion that responsibility for her children’s state was disseminated amongst their medical practitioners, teachers, friends or even themselves. With panache she flung her head back, her intention to hold the space. The cockroach became the kernel that contained her sense of self, and in slamming her hands down upon it she unleashed a phantasmagorical power that she wished was true beyond the kitchen walls.… Read More Flung
“And I wonder is there a dichotomy or relationship between the author in print and the author of the story putting it out there. From Arthur Stace’s Eternity on a t-shirt to Dharma on the butt of your activewear, what meaning are they making in the wearing?…If you take a look there are stories in the wearing as well as in what’s worn. I love that invitation to explore that space. And if we don’t know the real story about what is worn and why, it doesn’t matter. It’s just juice for the imagination. It’s catching the chameleon in the space between. It’s trading the telescope for tweezers…It may be a dead end alley like my KISS t-shirt from the 70s which could well have been about hiding in darkness, or it may be that we see the illuminated, the very act of living and the making of creases in the sacredness of our own bone clothing.”… Read More Wearing
I am seeking light, in myself and in the beauty of the world. And the light shines on a new wisdom about the sources of strength. Strength that comes from loving, from leaning, from learning. That endures hurt and joy, yearning and acceptance, hope and recognition. A different kind of strength designed not for surviving but for thriving.
Tiger. The words keep coming to me. “C’mon tiger”. And a slow rumbling that is a waiting roar builds within.… Read More The Thriving Tiger
There are bits of me all over the place, in various work books, on a receipt in my glasses case and spilling out behind me – I’m not sure if that’s like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs and I’ll be able to scoop myself back together, or whether in fact it’s more of a pied piper feat and I’m rounding up stray bits of others?
I’m loath at this point to try and juggle those facial expressions, personalities, many hued natures and tales that range from woe to happy self-actualisation. It would require me to take responsibility for the telling and to play God about the endings.”… Read More Resolve: The Sound of One Foot Slapping or The Dance of the Dominoes
I feel thwarted. I feel like that word is a little stuck in my mouth, like an oddly shaped piece of glass trying to move around in there, purporting to be a bite of something nice. It’s got the word “wart” in it, it’s doomed to be awkward. Thwarted.… Read More No Glass Mouthful of Thwart or Victorious the Living Myths
What is your second story moon? What calls to you and gets you spinning and floating? Will you fly too close to the sun on a paper wing, or be drawn to the subtlety of the moon?… Read More Tether: The Second Story Moon
But there will be no paying of the ferryman until he gets you from the beginning, through the middle and to the other side…the idea alone is not much of a journey and there is no destination until I try and set out. And how can there be capricious whims of fate when fate has been stalled? So I have been wondering about ways of really getting started.… Read More Don’t Pay the Ferryman: The Capricious Whims of Fate