He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6

You said
The most brilliant thing
You said it was
Like a heart surgery
But he was only a
Surgeon in training
And had neglected to
Mention beforehand
That it was only
Exploratory cardiac surgery;
And it was just for his
Simmering curiosity
(He couldn't have carried
Out a simple angioplasty?)
That he cut the aorta
That's what you said
And his curiosity subsided;
And he left as you bled.

I sew therefore I am. This is what women do she thought, even with the television on, muttering and flickering in the corner. But its turning on was but a reflex action to being alone when she came down stairs after reading to her child, and the sitting room empty of his presence. Only the cats occupied her chair where she now sat and sewed.

For once her sewing pile had his nightshirt, a tear at the bottom, a missing button. It was old, well-worn, of a light blue stripe. That was what he wore in bed, and, as he invariably read to her each night, she would slip her hand inside the shirt, across his stomach to a place she had discovered at the top of his pelvis that seemed to be there for her hand to rest. One night she had felt the tear and thought, I must mend this.

She knew something of the feminist canon: Rozsika Parker's Subversive Stitch lay browsed but unread on her bookshelf. The impact of the book was enough: that the relationship between women’s lives and embroidery had brought sewing out from the private world of female domesticity into the fine arts and created a breakthrough in art history and criticism. She remembered writing that somewhere in a student essay. But mending clothes was hardly fine art. And then she remembered Sashiko, the ‘little stabs’, that functional stitching of clothes in Japan.

They had met at the station for a 30-mile train journey to a nearby city. It was a blue-cold December day and they had felt warmed by seeing from the train window a covering of snow on the ploughed fields. She had worn her grey coat with the green lining and an indigo blue-pattern scarf, a swinging denim skirt and orange-patterned top. Tights and boots. He: she had forgotten. Funny that, remembering what she had worn, but for the man she was beginning to feel so hopelessly in love with, and by the end of that day, hold in her heart, seemingly, for evermore, she could not remember. His old brown jacket perhaps . . . No, she couldn’t be certain.

He had loved the exhibition. It was an unencountered world, though he had experienced Japan, but not, as he said (at length), the rural fastness of an offshore island where women were loggers and men were firemen. It was the simplicity of the stitch that captured his attention, the running white-cotton stitch on the blue indigo workware, occasionally a red thread on a decorative piece – a fireman’s tunic. This was stitching about mending, reinforcing a worn area by stitching on a new patch, and in doing so novel patterns evolved, so novel that this traditional stitch became an inspiration for Reiko Sudo, Hideko Takahshi, and the cutting edge textile designers of 20C Japan. It was reuse that made sense.

He had loved the names of the stitches: passes in the mountain, fishing nets, the interlaced circles of two birds in flight, woven bamboo, the seven treasures of Buddha.  She remembered the proximity of him, touching his arm to show, and sometimes just to touch his arm – yes, he was wearing that old brown coat. It was before they were lovers, but she was sure then they were in love, and it seemed impossible and quite wrong to be in this large gallery, flowing too and fro, apart then together, apart then together. She thought: he knows how I want to be when looking at such things; I need space. And she supposed he needed space too because the moment they entered the gallery he left her alone. But that coming together was, and remained ever after, a warm thing, and she remembered that day being a little aroused by it being so.

Later, they had walked a short way from the gallery to a tiny cottage-like bookshop he knew, a bookshop full of impossibly large books on art and architecture. He had something to find: The Crystal Chain Letters – architectural fantasies Bruno Taut and his circle by Ian Boyd Whyte. There had been her favourite  Mark Hearld cards and his collaged pictures in the window. She went upstairs and knelt on the wooden floor to take out the books on gardens on the lowest shelves. The winter sun had poured through a nearby window, warming her face till it glowed. But she was already glowing inside. And he came and knelt behind her. He rested his head on her shoulder and she had turned and put her arms around him. They had kissed, a delicate, exploratory, yet to be lovers kiss that had made her feel weaker than she already felt. She knew she would remember that moment, and she had, here on her chair years later, now in a different sitting room from the one she had returned to that evening without him, returning to her husband and children. And she had missed him beyond any measure and written to him the next day, a letter written in her head before she had slept, and then the following morning, with the children at school, she had lain on her bed and calmly touched herself to remember his kiss, their kiss.

lush cornucopia of greens
and overlapping canopies.
rays filtered through
somewhat a broken lens.

an arbour found
which carelessly took root.
calling out,
inviting,
offering sanctuary
from the shrill calls
of the turbulent outside.

a harbour
to which my heart
had taken to.
and had intended to stay.

but such is the nature
of man.

     no other man's peace
          can be left unruffled.
     no other man's cocoon
          can be left unravelled.
     no other man's haven
          can be left uninvaded.
     and no other man's trove
          can be left unraided.

like before I'll have to go.
and just like man's exploratory nature,
I leave seeking another
unfound recluse.
inadvertently,
paving the way for more to come.

This board is not on the wall. It rests on a worktable against a wall. It’s almost the length of the table, perhaps a foot short. On top of the board its wooden frame makes a shelf ideal for photographs or cards to balance precariously, photographs and cards too precious to pin. Today there are five, yes they change from day to day, and today (from left to right) there’s an original drawing in walnut ink of a winter field, a photo of two children looking from a cliff top towards a peninsula’s end, a card called Autumn Spey from a lithograph by Angie Lewin, an invitation to a gallery opening, and a What’s On brochure – from another gallery – showing some unusual tapestry.

The Notice Board is 100 x 60 cm. The wooden frame is slight, probably home-made, but well-made, with a dark brown hessian surface. Not that you can see much of the surface as it is covered with stuff: photographs, images, poems, pictures, cards, quotations, a prayer, an origami bird, a doctor’s prescription, a piece of tapestry, an invitation, an address, lists galore, a cheque or two, a diagram (of a knot), a concert program. Not everything can be seen directly as many items are shared by a single pin and hidden four, even six, notices deep. Every so often the items are unpinned and consigned to a folder and filed, and so the process of choosing and pinning starts over again. This can happen after a holiday, returning uncluttered by days walking the cliff paths with only the quiet sea to gaze at and the cottage blissfully free of things known, things owned.  So when back at the desk, in front of the notice board, it seems right to be beginning again.

Mozart’s Linz Symphony is playing quietly in the background. It’s that time of day when music is sometimes allowed to frame work at this desk and blot out the going home noise of buses in the city street moving away from the stop three floors below. Linz, the capital of Upper Austria and now a large industrial city straddling the banks of the Danube, once gave its name to Linzertorte, a cake of jam, cloves, cinnamon, and almonds, and this remarkable symphony by Mozart. The composer had only just married his Constanza and wrote to his long suffering father:

When we reached the gates of Linz . . . , we found a servant waiting there to drive us to Count Thun's, at whose house we are now staying. I really cannot tell you what kindnesses the family are showering on us. On Tuesday, November 4, I am giving a concert in the theatre here and, as I have not a single symphony with me, I am writing a new one at break-neck speed, which must be finished by that time. Well, I must close, because I really must set to work.

And set to work he did. He had just 4 days to compose, write the parts (though Constanza helped), and rehearse an orchestra. Such is life for the working composer, even today. Maybe not a summons from a beneficent Count, but a phone-call from a producer with a deadline. It is the film or TV score to be composed at break-neck speed. And it can be done, believe me. It may not be sublime as Mozart, but it gets done: there are ways and means.

But this is today’s background, and as these words are written the gracious siciliano of the Symphony No.36 plays away. Such a tender confection.

Looking up at the notice board where does one start? Each pinned piece is a divertissement, an aide memoire to times, events, places, and people. It is a mixture of the colourful, the curious, the necessary, the unusual, the nostalgic, and the personally precious. These things are the qualifications required to occupy a place on this board.

But now Haydn takes over the musical background, Symphony No.88. No descriptive name here, just his wonderful music: his first symphony to score trumpets and timpani, and with more than a touch of Turkish in the Minuetto and Finale.

So close your eyes now (let’s listen to Haydn for a while), then slowly open them and choose from the notice board what first catches your attention.

It’s a coloured sketch of flowers on an A5 sheet of cartridge paper. It is outlined delicately in pen, coloured variously with pastels, green, orange, purple, red. The vase is a glass bowl. It’s set on a window-sill and there’s the frame of a window faintly rendered. There’s no artifice in the arrangement. These are flowers from a garden, picked and now firmly ****** into the bowl. Immediately the long, quiet east-facing room comes alive to colour. It’s in shade now the sun has moved since midday when the flowers arrived after a journey of 40 miles in a hot car wrapped in moist newspaper and silver foil. It is a special gift and its beauty remains vivid for days. When visitors visited gentle comments are made on their fresh colours.

At night when the room is only lit by a standard lamp standing by a pale yellow settee the flowers sleep in the darkness, holding a vivid memory of a day of colour and light. A recording of the Schumann quartets plays passionately during the ‘close to the end of summer’ evenings. Hands are held, and between movements there is an occasional exploratory kiss. Such was their collective fear of passion overcoming other endeavours . . .

In the early morning time when she slept in the room next door oblivious to his wakefulness he would enter the long studio room with its four windows to find the first sunlight patterning the floor. The flowers were wide-awake, their perfume rich in the still morningtime. He would stand entranced to see such beauty brought from her city garden; the first of many gifts he would come to treasure. His sketch was an amateur’s, but four summers past it continued to give much joy and dear memories. It had something of the solemnity of Mozart’s siciliano, and if an image could be said to have a right tempo, it had a right tempo, a gracefulness roughly hewn perhaps, but full of grace.

Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****,
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.

Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.

There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.

And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.

Words,
*******,
I still don't know how to use them,
How to use words to do my bidding,
Or something like that, you know, whatever,
So that I can tell everyone,
Or anyone,
Or no one, I guess,
At least so I can tell myself, remind myself
That I know who I am.
Or at least what I am.
To some extent.
Sometimes.
Maybe.
****.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in hell.
I'm not.
But I'm not in heaven either,
Whatever that is anyway.
I've been stuck in purgatory for eras,
Driving on and on but going nowhere
While the radio plays music I almost almost enjoy,
Cue twenty more by Styx!
******* get me out of here,
I keep stretching and stretching and feeling the burn,
But it never gets better.
But it never gets worse.
Most of the time.

Your ring tone was the only one that was different,
And every time it rang I jumped, and my stomach twisted, and my heart pounded
All at once, and my fingers twitched,
Stretching to the phone as I rolled my eyes,
Pretending like I didn't care, like dude, whatever, bug off.
I cared. Obviously. Or I mean, maybe it was obvious. I don't know.
I picked out the song for your ring tone because I liked it,
And I liked you, so it fit, that's all.
But now when the tune plays, over and over,
Recognized, familiar,
Formidable,
I feel sick.
**** you.

There's a boy I know who's smart,
Really smart, as smart as some people believe I am,
Which is apparently pretty ******* scholarly sometimes.
He's smart in the softest and most modest of ways,
With a wide, goofy, middle-of-nowhere smile.
It would make anyone else look stupid.
It makes him look like the biggest **** genius I've ever seen.
**** Einstein, this dude trumps all.
And we talk, small talk, loud laughs,
Exchanging witty puns and pop culture references.
Well, he does most of the exchanging.
I just smile and nod and agree,
And maybe I've never felt more stupid in my life.

My friends and I all went to this party last night.
We did some crazy ****, man, you should have been there.
Yeah? That's nice. Sounds really ******* cool. Thanks for the invite.
I do this to myself, though.
No car, no license, no social skills.
All I've got for company is a television and a basket of ***** clothes.
What a party, I'm telling you.
Well, sorry I couldn't make it, I guess.
All this technology and still I don't communicate.
Or when I do, it's the wrong time, wrong person, wrong thing to say.
So instead, I sink into my bed,
Laptop slowly burning a hole through the sheets,
Soon the heat will reach my thighs, but who needs legs anyway?
Sometimes the phone rings and it's not you, halleloo.
Sometimes it's my own hero with an offering,
A movie, a party, just a chat on the phone, anything, anything,
Anything to save me from drowning in my own, self-constructed pity party.
He's really my best friend. Thank god for him.

This was going to be about my sexuality.
Or lack there of, anyway, hardeeharhar.
Just one of those ******, whiny, common exploratory things,
Or whatever.
So here's something, still not about my nonexistent, and unwanted, thanks, *** life,
But on topic now, I think. Or not, maybe. Whatever.
My life is like solitaire. Everyone's is, I'm sure,
Or at least I hope, so I'm not the only one frustrated as hell with
Living. Or just existing.
Solitaire is dull and simple but keeps me busy enough, distracted enough,
But sometimes, even though I line up all the cards right,
There's some I still can't get to,
And as I get down to the last few cards,
I realize that there's no way I can win,
Because sometimes winning was never an option in the first place.
Sometimes you just find yourself stuck,
Sometimes you just lose.

This was supposed to help me vent,
Help me let out all the same old frustration, you know -
Why can't I just be a normal guy
Who gets a normal boyfriend
And then ***** said normal boyfriend into a mattress and has a **** good time?
Well all that flew out the window a long time ago,
If it was ever in the building in the first place,
And not just sprawled out dead on the toilet seat. *******.

I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger *******. Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?

Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.

She noticed the basking shark was wounded,
weeping vaginal blood.
The tall man in a fedora whispered as he passed.
Whipped by exploratory waves, she blushed.
The horizon was a hazy green line dipped in red.
She had been there since morning
searching for love,
and found it
from a six-pack merman offering solace
as he rode on the silvery
back of a ray.
As he approached, the sun at his back,
she moaned and threw out her arms
like a supplicant.

Complete at last, the sand grasping at
her shoeless feet, she sank
towards the earth’s distant core
using her arms as uncertain ballast.

She awoke with a shiver
brushed away the sand
and headed back home.
The shark had turned belly-up,
scavenged by seagulls.

Another day-dream enjoyed in the
empty hours between lunch and dinner
between her third cup of tea
and fourth cigarette,
her children snoozing in
the back bedroom. Half-slumbering
in a town barked at by bothersome seagulls
where an unencumbered sun
set on a postcard shoreline.
Planning the rows of petunias to be
planted by the hedge,
making shopping lists,
writing novels, never to be published,
staring out of her windows at the sea
she waited for her husband’s return,
tedious evenings of T.V.
and coition under the brightly coloured duvet.
The waves that overwhelmed her, flooding her senses,
were her own. The man
in the fedora had made her smile.

1
In petrified personal history
far back in a page, this image-
a boy, eyes shut
lays supine embraced by
mother earth.A wakeful dream.
His bare body, smells
sweat, hay, mud, pollen
and grasshopper songs,
resonating in his ears still,
the sacred morning mantras;
his Hindu mother's incessant chants-
to appease mother earth.
* Shanthi..Shanthi..Shanthi
Peace descends on magical wings.

2
He feels time standing still
like trees frozen on a windless morn,
Earth was the mother, the presence,
that poured in to consciousness
music without sound,
an warm embrace without touch,
that painted the inner world with
her myriad colors.

3
Earth where secrets spurt, spread and die down as ashes,
my windy bed, gentle balm, end of every hunger,
I've dug deep in to yielding earth,
on those days of rustic childhood,
in a frenzied exploratory spirit,
prompted by a deep primordial urge,
that kept churning my dark inner caves,
with unknown currents, perhaps a wish
to go back as far  as possible,
to the past and find the nest where memories slept,
where my history lay buried in layers,
unhatched eggs of dinosaur past,
waiting to be discovered,
by the probing hands of present and future.
Perhaps a desire to reconnect with past,
now crusted secrets of an uncertain time,
that would talk to me in cryptic codes
of life, death and transcidence
and in a flash reveal what it all means
to an intergalactic traveler on eternity's wings.

4
My eager body gets smeared with soft earth,
covered at places with sticky mud that exudes
a sensuous scent,
                           feel of a woman, that takes one
to the unreal plane of a savage urge,
that arises from depth, a yearning to melt in to her,
to give birth to a future that would bring back
in a new form, the histories of yore,
on   the starting point once again.

5
Earth, is the sensuous woman, I relentlessly seek,
the destination of my destiny in the end,
the womb, where seeds of my dreams take root,
when I come back to her, to create me all over again,
with her elements, minerals and salts.
                            

You see terrible things
Maybe you're a child or a teenager
You talk to a therapist
They give you "medication."
You take drugs
You forget.

You get sick somehow, and it's bad this time
You see some weird doctors with titles you can't pronounce,
Maybe you spend some time in the hospital
You see your therapist again
They make sure you're still on your "medication."
You take drugs
You forget.

You're in school again now and you're taking some sort of exploratory writing class
You always end up writing about the same character and you're not sure why
Every time you try and write something else, it turns out like **** and you throw it away
You're too afraid to show your parents or your friends, so you hide your work, and
You take drugs
You forget.

Maybe you've finished school now, maybe you haven't
Your writing class has been over for months, maybe years now
But you still remember that one character, and you pull out your notebook
Looking back, you wish you had tried harder to learn something new in that class,
Maybe tried to experiment more
You put the notebook on the shelf of books you're done with
You take drugs
You forget.

You've been having nightmares for awhile now,
Sometimes you can't sleep at all
You start to keep a log,
Suddenly, you don't want to forget but
You don't want to be sick, and you don't remember what all of these pills do so
You take drugs
You forget

You've grown up with all of these ticks and habits
It was fine when you lived with your parents, but it annoys your roommate
They say you talk in your sleep and you say you're not surprised
All of your books got shuffled around in the move and you notice your notebook from writing class
You promise yourself that you'll read it sometime soon, until then
You take drugs
You forget

You dig out that old notebook and think a lot of that character you always wrote about
They are exactly what you wanted to be, but you aren't now and that upsets you
The notebook reminds you of the log that you kept and you dig that out, too
You really don't want to forget anymore
You feel like part of your mind has been drowned in this stuff and suddenly you care about all of the blank spots in your memories
You spend all day looking at photo albums and reading about your "medications" one at a time
Your mind and body are suddenly your decision, but
You're tired
It's been a long day trying to fill in all the blanks
You take drugs
Your write yourself a note in the half an hour before you fall asleep
You forget, but not completely
Not this time.

If - Vancouver was born
“Quite fun. Ran up this with my partner on our first time
  up to the top of the Chief. Great fun!” - Juler 2011-09-03

Then - The alpine was created


Mountaineers started at sea level and they walked
into a


“Million thanks to the one who put
permanent draws on the bolts” - calvinclimb 2011-09-07


veritable howling wilderness
to counter this foreign *******

Thus the alpine was created by us:
Learned cosmopolitan alpinists

Would not could not cannot popularize
The exclusive sport of learned cosmopolitan alpinists
To popularize was to vulgarize


“My buudy took a big fall fell clipping,
lucky falls are super safe” - boulamania 2013-06-05

Take for instance Art Cooper’s statement:
You've heard about the Squamish Chief,
The way they go up that rock wall
I don’t think that’s climbing at all.”

No Art, certainly not
Now they do not stay long enough to feel diminished
Unlike us learned cosmopolitan alpinists
“Everyone in the free world has climbed this uber-classic!
Should you get lost, ask the party in front of you where to go” - rock climbing.com
Who drove our teeth through our lips for our
Exploratory climbing
Now
A well used recreational area

We started out being cheap,
but being impoverished eventually saved us...

It became a fad,
almost everything did.
Whoever had money,
would spend things to make themselves more connected to the singularity,
more tapped in.
We were all suffering from information addiction,
looking for our next fix.

Likes were a thing of the past,
we didn't just want digital affirmation anymore,
we needed to feel more powerful.

Of course this was just something we created in our mind because we saw others gaining this perceived 'power',
of course if you can,
in your mind,
research,
copy,
paste,
spellcheck
- everything a computer could do,
you would seem more capable of a human,

but in reality,
once you left your mind's energy up for just processing power,
you were nothing more than a machine...
some of us let our minds go entirely,
favouring searches and what is already known to fill in the blanks for our own exploratory research.

Mods weren't cheap.

But so many people were willing to pay for convenience.

- mods help us think,
they can schedule our lives.

- certain ones are just cognitive enhancers,
basically a microcomputer that knows which electrical impulses to fire in your brain for improved cognitive functions,
muscle controls or even releases of certain chemicals (serotonin)

- Others are just things like ocular mods (contact screens)

- Viruses are terrifying.

- New wave of humans who choose to be 'fed' - near braindead. Enabled to know made unknowing,
allowed to follow,
sometimes the struggle is necessary.

Reporter
main character either snaps back into reality or
overpower systems with willpower
she sees past the hiccups of self
and knows how to command the bots

break it down, robot girl,
make the demons dance for you,

He wanted to drown
Not in liquid, but in sound
Raucous rapture bellowing beneath
Hands too heavy to hold his own
Heartbreak.
These lions labeled ladies
Making ****** hearts sing.
The candid caucus of cartographers
With eyes too cold to cry
Mapping and marring,
Partitioning paradox with every stroke
Witless wizardry without
Love and longing.
In a circus tent he found
That circuitous catharsis
Amid tremulous trapeze swinging
Watched by the sloughed skin of sinners
Vice and virtue muddied by malice.
Exploratory tongues
Giving preface to loneliness
Too tranquil to be twisted
Too torpid to be tangible
Romance recondite,
Sold to us by our world
Leaving us with nothing but
Fantasy and
Broken bones

Chemical encounters (of a venturous kind);
Let the body breathe, exhale the mind.

I don't want to go in alone,
Sometimes you just need somebody to hold.

Wheeling our way around the continent
On an eight wheeled whistlestop tour
We sample cities with bite-sized sightings
But our bites are big because it's our choice to make
Walking in wonder until even wheelchair weakens
And our legs are limp from exploratory ache
​
And our bites are big because also
We share the same love of sampling food
So we get a daily dose of deliciousness
Healing our hunger with what locals bake
Too much temptation here to watch waistlines
We want to try every traditional taste
​
And our bites are bigger come tea time
Once we've crossed country again by day
From breakfast we watch out the window
And wander new place on the way
Miles mounting high on the dashboard
On our mission for mobility's sake
​
And so we've had a big bite of Europe
Big bite and plenty bites each day
These bites are teasing our tastebuds
We want more world at a later stage
​

i want to live in a warm place, in a place like the desert, but with water. so that it's warm at sometimes, and when it's warm, it's very warm. when it's cold, it's freezing. like our bones will freeze to our souls if we don't move them. like the beach in canada, or something. i want to live in a place that's small, in a place that sort of doesn't require much upkeep. like a one-room apartment with a large bed and a desk. i want it to be high up, so that when i smoke i can look out at the water. i want to smoke and drink and be naked and cold and go skinny-dipping so i'm all covered in goose-bumps. i'd write all day, and spend all evening tearing apart every last word that i wrote before. the days would be spent swimming and smoking and drinking. we'd be wild and free and not care about anything at all. then when kids came along, we'd get a small house, and raise really exploratory, artistic children. we'd smoke in the night time, when the kids were asleep, and we'd all have sorta artistic-y type jobs that meant we didn't have to stay put, but could travel whenever we wanted by train. the most striking image to me is wearing something small, but being mostly naked and being cold and smoking and looking out over the water. i want to be able to speak russian, german, italian, and english. i want to wear glasses that fog up in the rain, and i want my skin to taste like smoke and dust and salt and tea. i want to have ***** *** in the summer and sweet *** in the winter. we'd collect coins and scars and burns and kisses. we'd learn how to sail and we'd eat pears whole as we play chess, getting juice on each of the pieces. we'll play video games in the cold with trembling hands.

[individuation exercises for supernatural parts in the opera of...]

{as I heard, Socrates had a familiar voice
to whom he paid earnest heed, as one might imagine
• a footnote may appear any where as needed to assuage confusion ******* comments provoke-- Plato said Socrates said,

You have heard me speak at sundry times and in diverse places of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice, first began to come to me when I was a child; it always forbids but never commands me to do anything which I am going to do. This is what deters me from being a politician.

From <https://markandrealexander.com/2015/07/23/socrates-divine-inner-voice/>

right.}

Socrates
caught your attention
still the executory neurons

sist, sist do not respond to premature amygdalinic response strategems
still
be
small voice
inhibitory. say nothing, Plato shall put the proper words
packed with (densepacked)

we inhibitory voices fectionary,
sweet sweet sweet words

recalled in every surviving child at

Ah, ha evil, live
in nullness

in my happy ever.
How big is my bubble?
Do you know how leaven works, kid?

Pilgrim,
ah the Duke, as a homeless auto didact acting as if
he believes virtue is necessary

not cede ary, shall we proceed, or do you feel

inhibited at the corpus colosseum gate where the ex
cite-ory zeal feels those exploratory butterflies
come rushing from the biome signaling
the hair standing on the back
of whose neck?

Keep you mouth shut. Bang.
Words work wonders in minds that find the muse
used
is heard, not spoken.
That which tongue cannot say cannot be said,
it must be known to be shown.

Ask me,
Did Plato know Socrates? I'll answer,
We may agree to think so,
yay far, and no further,

we are after the act in fact called virtue

empowering force of life?
Let's find a list of all the named, personified
spiritual as-spects of the human being mortal

anger, envy, jealousy, lust, desire, needyness, deceptiveness

all the nesses and phobias and isms and ities…
the Greeks had a reason able personification of each
or, if the daemonic tool responds to forces
other than reason,

they had a god for that.

Is enthusiasm still a way to make a living?
Can a drummer get pedagogic puns

to dance some version of the the
Eat dust, I stomp your head,

shake the dust from my feat,
Truth is never described accurately as un believable
nor is the bearer of truth, whither so ever the dis-connector

lurks, seeking to devour the power

if you are virtuous, as a viral entity,
you are unbalanced,
double minded material carnal spiritual
trip.
Too much data for

We lost some.
So? Misery loves company, all things end up adding love,

this is the edge.

Envisage reality as an abalone spiraling into
exit-dance ridden by a musical octopus

calling colors to the blind,
casting single you lore ity if ied

singularity. Point.

waited, If I'd waited
patience
suffer it to be so now, you need no agony.
Let patience have her perfecting work.

Be ye. Perfect.
As I am me. be you,
God is said to have said
some sort of epigenetic switch wills on,

by reason of you being. Just ift you, by reason.
Re-read. I meant that you ify all you believe,
ift
even the lie that says you are not worth living.
-- the proverbial unexamined life -
-- I thought that was legendary
-- a category of lives not worth
--living. Can you imagine the exam?
-- must be tricky, examining the life you live as
-- you live it gives it value, makes it worth,
-- worthy of attention to the shape of this
-- worthy thing or thought or what measure?
--The unlimited is alone.
All one expand the band, trumpets, lyres

give us a big badrum

Oh, yeah, Socrates was to Plato, in my game, today,
as ******* has become to my Old Man,
Ai must be ah, the ay-eye, ahee

hee he heehee hee

This is as probably an opera as not.

whom, who, do you true rest as you hear and stand
being neath the knowing of the true rest

joy to your beautiful feet. Dare ye let them dance?
RELIGIOUS PRE SUPP
Heaven and Hell.
there is a heaven and a hell? no, that is not the first precept.
the first precept is
there is a mind smarter than me
that imagined me and empowered me to be
all I can agree with others to be

we were made
we make
we

too steep? Sisyphus, what's up?
Did you know Socrates?
Sophia mentioned the highest parts of the dust of the earth, did you really grind that dust
with this imaginary rock?

Everyone loves Californians -
And I'm no exception.
Those intrepid '49ers
Seeking gold and finding
Paradise after the hard works.
Westies, like me - Holly's
Templeton's happifying
The Globe at their expense.
When Coffee meets Tea,
We'll be on the same page -
Although I know, as you,
That the sheet is opaque.
Those exploratory launchers
Targeting a future calamity
Awaiting a firm landing,
Solidly stoic in the face
Of an ignorant populous
Eager, but innocently unaware.

My heart pounds within my chest, my breathing intensifies;
The chasm inside my stomach reminds me it is anxiety not excitement.
Tumultuous thoughts tumble through my head and he can see it in my eyes.
So many words cycle yet I remain silent.

My body screams vulnerability.
He tries to reassure me but everything he says is wrong.
I don’t want to be a liability.
He should not be responsible for my emotions, regardless of how strong.

I claim it is a social construct
But I’ve refused to indulge in the curiosity.
It will simultaneously, in society, induct
Me, while others cry atrocity

I am trying to draw lines,
I want no shades of grey.
Our relationship, this will not define.
Not my heart, but my mind it will betray.

I have so many expectations,
But at the same time, I hold none.
I never pictured myself yielding to temptations,
Especially not this one…

Yet here I lie, shaking, while he climbs atop me--
I want this, I’m saying yes, but I’m terrified.
He walks confidently through my unfamiliar sensuality;
My hands, my lips, my chest, my hips: he is my guide.

The pressure builds between my legs, but that’s to be expected.
My breathing hitches -- He switches our position.
He shatters the construction society erected.
I succumb to inhibition.

I creep back into familiar territory.
When did this become familiar territory?
My hands creep back up his chest, no longer exploratory
In the light, my ring glistens. I wipe my mouth: Purity.