Voting 1 for Greens.

IN ALL OF THIS, I GUESS I SHOULD FEEL GUILTY. i put no real thought into it. THEN AGAIN, THE CENSUS PROVES ME TO BE A CAPITALIST CHRISTIAN STUDENT WHO DOESN'T NEED GOVERNMENT ASSISTANCE FOR STUDY. SO I THINK I'LL PASS AND HIDE THE GUILT FOR NOW.

Keat's house.

This house is filled with quiet breathing.

Most of the light is blocked out by wind-down shutters; maps and propaganda posters visible by the workings of a desk lamp.
I wish I could stifle my coughing.

The bed is twice as large as my own, which is convenient in the off chance that it'll be inhabited by two people. Two sleepy people. Drowzy. Dozey. Dopey, as you like to say it. Breath.

Your hands are routinely cold from the bathroom, and my skin boils under the covers while I wait for you. You slip in and off, hands around my waist and lips against my back. Breath. Breath.

You draw in deep the scent of my hair: "to make sure it's not an impostor", you say, "you have a Sally smell". The idea of even having a Sally smell makes me nervous beyond repair. Don't forget to breathe. Breath. Breath. Breath.

I like run my fingernails along your back. It's all those noises you make. Small, satisfied, almost triumphant. And you twist, and you bend, and you shudder at this movement. At the drag of a fingernail, well positioned. You bite your lip. You stop. Stare. Kiss. Mumble sweet words. And we breathe. Quiet breathing.

Breath. Breath. Breath. Breath.
Snore.

Wattle Season

I'm starting to feel the heart-rising-in-my-throat queasiness again. I feel tired, but it's a satisfied tired. A tired that has some purpose to it.

When I walk along roads now, I count the wattle trees. I hope to grow older. I listen to your quiet breathing and avoid Keats for the sake of minimizing unneeded cliches. It's the small sounds you make in the dark: the yawns and the groans and the side comments on civil wars. They fill the space. Sometimes it makes it easier to sleep. Sometimes it makes me restless.

Moon-town maker.

Moon-town maker.

I hope you know that since you've been gone, I have seen six incidents of highway roadkill. I've almost been in two car accidents. Only one of them was my fault.
I've cried a little and I've sneezed alot.
Things have been building up.
Building up like skyscrapers.
Overpopulated cityscapes. Where the hustle is barely distinguishable from the bustle, but nobody gives two fucks about it anyway because they're too busy with their noses in their newspapers, or drinking their mandatory coffee, tapping away on their Apple branded anythings. God, I hate Apple Macs.
Now, you're just a lightswitch in a Dulwich Hill apartment block. Things were just so busy and you gave them so much light. And then,

you just went out.

How amazing it is to be anything at all. Perhaps I need to forget it all, and just be.

Re-arranging Wordsworth: The Ruined Cottage (Tuesday)

'Twas summer and the sun was mounted high.
Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss
Extends his careless limbs beside the root
Of some huge oak whose aged branches make
A twilight of their own, a dewy shade
Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man,
Half-conscious of that soothing melody,
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,
By those impending branches made more soft,
More soft and distant. Other lot was mine.

I found a ruined house, four naked walls
That stared upon eachother. I looked round
And near the door I saw an aged Man,
Alone, and stretched upon the cottage bench;
With instaneous joy I recognised
That pride of nature and of lowly life,
That venerable Armytage, a friend
As dear to me as is the setting sun.
The old Man said, "I see around me here
Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth
Dies with him or is changed, and very soon
Even of the good is no memorial left.

Why should a tear be in an old man's eye?
Why should we thus with an untoward mind
And in the weakness of humanity
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away,
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,
And feeding on disquiet thus disturb
The calm of Nature with our restless thoughts?"

Wordsworth, W. 1799.

Family ties.

There is a history of tragic death, you know. It's in our blood. Blood and water and falling. Adam fell, from very high. A story for every year he lived. My great, great grandmother strung herself from a bridge, swaying and feet kissing the waters surface: for her husband, for her children. My great uncle an imitation of Tolkien: a Drogo like drowning on a summer trip. Uncle Jack had nerves from the war, a gunner in a fighter plane: he drowned too. Some say he threw himself out.