Terrariums

You collected terrariums
And filled them with sand from foreign shores

You strummed along to John Denver
While she wiped our hair and brushed our paws

Laughed at dirt beneath our nails
Led us past still waters and hikers trails

We never really saw it then
Three boys staring at photocopies of men

We laughed indoors, we laughed in makeshift tents
An amalgamation, the where the now the then

And as boyhood bleeds into adult grey
I remember mangroves whistling by the bay

And if I saw you one more time, I'd fold my hands,
Supine across the grass, listen one more time to tales of summers past.

night moves

Isn’t it strange how as each year closes in on itself, you find yourself in a state of hyper introspection - seemingly more in tune with yourself and those around you? My languid navel gazing is sometimes punctuated by bouts of sheer terror - contemplations on mortality, being, and perhaps most dreaded of all, purpose. 

Having said all this, certain facts remain. I am twenty four. I am at this very intersection in space and time. I feel different from the person who just a year ago was certain he was different from the person before that. I think if anything I fear stagnancy more than I value the ways I’ve shaped and been shaped by the very world I find myself intrinsically part of. 

Sifting through memory, the ones that shine brightest are the ones tethered to people. A marked difference from previous annual musings that always seemed centred on the self or places or things.

This leads me to a rather pronounced realisation - I think the value of life is derived from the people you share it with. I sit back and chuckle at the simplicity of my micro epiphany but realise that the trick, more than thinking or feeling this way, is living it.

It is getting late and if you were hoping for a yearly resolution dear reader, I’m afraid that’s as wishful & wistful as I’m willing to get tonight.


Songs:
Star Mile - Joshua Radin
Green Eyes - Coldplay
Kathleen - Josh Ritter
Golden - My Morning Jacket 

intermezzo

we were born in an empty town. you looked out from the backseat. laughed at the people staring out from behind their faces. took long walks down long streets. faces brown and glistening from the sun. tried to keep up with your friends. half in the ditch. half on the sidewalk. the boys would be boys. fell through roofs. teased the girls until they cried. peeked through cracks in doors. wrapped ourselves up in sweaters. pretended to be teenagers. pretended to be adults. snuck into theatres. discovered john lennon. got drunk for the first time. got high for the first time. sat in trees. made lemonade on barmy days. outgrew our clothes. outgrew our friends. skipped school. courted trouble. bummed about in dead shopping malls. slept with other people. watched as the planes took off and landed. somewhere along the line we grew up. somewhere along the line we grew old.

head

Perhaps you should not have loved so fiercely,
But a little more deeply.
We fall in love with signs and symbols, implied meaning, projections of a future.
We fall for reality television, smiling packaging, charismatic talkers.
We read the papers, we have opinions on politics, we contribute to conversation.
We smoke the cigarettes, we take the trips, we carouse and dance.
We march in rallies, we wave flags, we castigate the old regimes.
We smile at strangers, wait meekly in queues, abdicate seats for septuagenarians on the train.
We fuck our lovers, we kiss our mothers, we teach our daughters to be gentle and clever.
We bake cakes, we celebrate birthdays and weddings, we get sentimental at the movies.
We walk in parks, we smell the trees, we have a modest appreciation of beauty.
We spiral into sadness, we laugh delirious with happiness, mostly we straddle in between.
We find solace in ourselves, we shift the burden of meaning to others, we exist quite temporally.
We work a little too willingly, we travel now and then, we start to dream through our kiddies.
We pass on stories, we erase memories, we grow ripe and fat and old.
We paint, we write, and we sing.
We know everything about nothing worth remembering.

sweets

Kerouac said "One day I will find the right words and they will be simple"

I listen to "Wait" by M83 and I experience a swelling in my heart that eventually tapers off and becomes complete stillness.

Clocks tick on by. Tick tick tick. Time's memory - faulty or photographic?

I want to make love to you on LSD.

You paint the candle holders. You paint the bowls. You paint the chairs. You paint the knobs on our doors. Time passes, do you realise that you paint me too?