As Bystanders we are Exposed.

We enter a room that's plain and simple. We automatically sit opposite the mirrors, looking at the performer in the eyes. She's just sitting there, with her stare fixed on a distant spot. The way she sits, at first, makes one think she is lost. Not lost in a physical, directionless, sense; she's lost in her thoughts. What is she thinking?- that's up to us to guess. Her pose also makes her look vulnerable, her passiveness makes her somewhat sacred and unapproachable.
The usher cuts the tension by snipping the actress' dress. Only a small triangle of cloth is cut off, the second usher does the same and leaves the scissors to us. Instead of a monologue or a dance the room falls silent again, as the echo of the snip (a reminder of our game) fades away. We all stare at the small triangles of cloth, at the scissors and at the missing sections of dress. We also stare at each other, through the mirror. We can see one another and try to stare someone into moving, psychically making them take the first step. We also see the actress, her dress and the scissors again. What are we meant to do? we ask ourselves. It is a dumb question, we are all secretly curious... At last someone gets up to pick the scissors. We can see his expression, his intention on his face, through the mirror. This way we are distant from him, yet somehow intrusive. He hesitantly nips the sleeve.
Slowly we all undress her and her skin becomes more exposed, like the landscape of a painting that bit-by-bit is filled. At first the borders, hen towards the center. The artist is still sitting there and her gaze hasn't shifted. It doesn't shift at all despite our encroachment: though she seems oblivious of us we are trodding below her gaze and stealing augmenting glimpses of her skin.
Is there not something wrong, here? Are we not violating her being. We are shedding off her veil of protection without asking ourselves why. We just are, because we are curious, yet isn't this macabre? Not yet.
Soon the ushers lose their patience. While we watch, they stop the"un"-curious snipping and begin to tear and rip and throw the cloth away. They start to bully her. Why isn't she doing anything? This is no play! They push her and prod her, the dress' straps fall leaving her breasts exposed. We can see it all and hear it: from in-front and behind, through mirrors and echoes. They mock her, wet her, spit on her; they hit her and make her watch her hair fall before her eyes. All the time we watch, and all the time she recomposes herself. She brings herself to the same position, sometimes after a loud fall, without opening her mouth. We are still unnoticed by her gaze, she hasn't started to plea yet- though her eyes, for a second, looked flooded in anguish. Why must she ask for help?
One spectator covers the girl up, another cleans her face and dries her back, a third tries to stop the usher-turned-violent. Meanwhile the rest of the audience just stares. Some aren't even looking, others just sit there in silence.
The performance highlights what is commonly known as bystander syndrome: when someone refuses to help someone in need of aid in belief that somebody else more qualified will do it. The audience here too remains passive, possibly staring at others in hope, or accusation, or watches down in shame. I found my breath piercing the air with each blow. This is no puzzle of a Constable landscape, it has become a scream by Munch. Like the painting though, the victim is muted. She screams only in our head, are they loud enough to pierce our tranced and passive reality? She is tortured, dragged naked, in front of us and our cowardice is exposed much more than the body we see.
The audience only shouts once: when the usher is chipping off the paint of a ladder with a buckle. However the room is silent when her gaze snaps out of its lock for the only time. We nonchalantly forget to notice her sole plea for help as the usher cracks the belt beyond her eyes- where she can no longer see, nor can we.

We forgot to ask ourselves at what point this was just a performance, or how true it is to reality.

29 ways to stay creative.

Normalcy

He walks down these midnight streets, he

hears echoes through dim-lit Normalcy.

While one wonders in unison

more self-exposed lies that soul alone.

It is that breath we hear,

that drive -a call- to run,

that wont for all things fun,

that gut-wrenched laugh shame fear.

Hooded and hidden this psyche,

here;

seeks no further idiocy-

secretly- for normalcy.

But under specs of gold above,

(though looketh not)

transient patience. See self dissolve. 

Threatening the status, a man coup-coup.

The sky was darkening and there had been a layer of high fog over the city all day. I walked past the Octagon again this evening. Last night I was there roundabout the same time, with hundreds of others in expectation of the eviction of the local Occupy. Rumour goes the police wasn't even aware of an eviction until the rag had told them, which strengthened the occupiers belief that the media was forcing the event -in hope of tomorrow's fresh splash. That is possibly all it was, though a trespass notice had been given to the group, the bells eerily chimed eight resonating in an air crisp with electrifying anticipation. In contrast with a few minutes beforehand, when the 300 or so protesters had been chanting and marching around the Octagon; everyone was now quiet, prepared media crew were in their vehicles and the speakers' words rang hollow. For minutes at a time the sound of sirens forced people to instinctively turn. False alarm, nothing. I stayed til two philosophizing and talking politics, and helping to protect tents and protesters from a relatively paced onslaught of negative public feedback, including a headbutt which has since gone viral.

Today the tents were still there, though typical of midweek at the site, the new public forum of the square held few people after dinner. Instead of staying I thought I'd make my way to the uni library.

"Talking about foreign policy... Dan! how are you?"

I quickly dived into the depths of memory to remember him -"uh, wasup bro, having a good night?"; ah yes, from uni.

"Good mate, just come from the Octagon? Going to uni, exams? Good night?"

What a barrage of questions, I noticed he was slightly intoxicated. "Yeah, finished though. Just off to write some e-mails to the family. It's the only place I can do it, the library..."

"Oh, you must've been one of the first! I've been celebrating uhm ah Malbas we.."

"So you've finished too! For good"

"Yeah, na na. Just a coup hoping for a better place"

A coup!? Celebrating..? I couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. His demeanor was confusing, his words came flustered but also mumbled. I felt quite alarmed.

"Wait, a coup where?"

"... enough lack of equality, corporate greed..."

"Where has this coup been" And why the hell was he talking about it so personally!? I was becoming impatient.

"Look man, where..."

"These politicians have blood on their hands and... Here."

My mouth hung gaping, by the second I was becoming more confused. I looked around, was this a joke? Who's in that car behind me? I looked up the street quickly before looking at the man. The whites of his eyes had light red cracks and his gaze was glassy.

"Wait, what?"

"In Invercargill, come down to the quarters and... so many murders in their hands these politicians it is really quite a scary thing. So enough, equality all. From Invercargill, South Island going up from here, or down because Invercargill is up and it's all good". 

I stood staring at him still while he talked. I felt like a train had hit me, but equality and military... but New Zealand? We are in New Zealand. My thoughts rushed as fast as the adrenalin through my veins. I just realized I had seen an army truck, with its massive wheels and high motor, driving quickly not even five minutes ago. From the Naval HQ just down the road. It's benches were empty.

I was still in disbelief, I felt like this was an incredibly transcendental moment. How do I stop this.

"But it's all good" he repeated. "I'm off down now, maybe you should check the news more often". 

"Yeah... I'll uh, cool." I turned around and started walking to the library.

I was feeling incredibly paranoid. Everything around me was a sign, I felt like a hawk ready to dive on the smallest piece of evidence. I couldn't believe him, but was it true? There weren't many cars around, bars and restaurants were open, but empty. I took notice of my phone, nothing. For a second I told myself it was all normal, then I decided to look into Malbas.

It was also empty. Though nothing pointed to the drunk words of my friend, I still felt hawkish. When my phone went I jumped, thinking it may be a more political friend- it was just work. I now heard someone shout and round the corner someone looked to be superstitiously texting. My ears turned to any conversation i could pick up on and walking I stared into restaurants hoping to catch a glimpse of a news report.
At last I arrived to Uni, busy with exam study as usual at this time of the year. I was called to by a political friend to participate in my usual political conversations. This was ridiculous, but I checked up the news as quickly as possible, with nothing new.

This post has been cross-posted to speakingsavvy.blogspot.comhttp//:speakingsavvy.blogspot.com.

Her personal craving.

She had her hoodie up, but unlike most youths, she could rave about not being plugged in to the mainstream ticks. Often she'd be holding a book in her hand reading whilst walking. Like a bat relies on echo she had an intuitive feel for her surroundings. The book was weighing down her hoodie, but this time she was taking it all in: the cars, the trees, the contrast between the brown of that building and the beige of this one. Just as she was looking at a child play with his balloon she was forced to jump back dodging a car with this year's beats blasting out. Alright... maybe her sense of space was not all that great Chloe thought to herself as she got up from the ground. "Gah that's shiiite", the sound as she often called what blurted out of the radio lately sounded like glass shattering to the floor. Or worse... Chloe shuddered at the thought of her nails being filed. Yuck, that imperceptible sound of her nails grinding against that sandpaper like surface was not one she ever liked.
Chloe was walking down the street with a spring in her step today. She was carrying a paper bag, neatly tucked under her arm. In it was her treasure, her guilty pleasure. She knew she bought them in excess, but we've got to satisfy our cravings don't we? she told herself...

Her cupboard was bare though and if only she could sustain herself on the contents of her paper bag. Old wrappers, almost identically folded, lay across the floor of her room. What harm can one more do?

She arrived home and hid it behind her back as she quickly wrestled with the lock in her room. The last thing Chloe wanted was for her flatmate to hassle her about it again. The problem is it wouldn't only just be that, Chloe could laugh at herself but Jack was clingy and would ask to see what it was today. Opening it, her treasure, was worthy of a routine. Like a Mayan sacrifice she followed a protocol. This after all was hardly food for thought.

Chloe opened the fridge, there was a carrot - was that even hers? An old lettuce, with a dark green slimy shadow underneath it. As she stared at it with her eyebrow raised she suddenly got hit by the foul stench of it. Reflexively she turned and coughed, she slammed the fridge door. "Right, I'll try go to bed early tonight..."...

With a light and milk-less cup of tea she managed to brew from a teabag she had noticed trying to hide under the pot of sugar, and with plenty of sugar in it, she sat on her bed with the carton-coloured treasure in front of her. She smiled. Her eyes were fixed on the object; it looked like she was devising a plan as to how she would open it this time. Rip the plastic first? Take it from the edge? Quickly or should she take her time, taste every last second of her fast... Hell, when would the next one be?
Chloe noticed  the last wrapper she'd opened, it was tucked under one of her many piles of books. Hardcovers and second-hand gems no-one had heard of lay across her floor as well. It hadn't been vacuumed for months, but how could she vacuum dodging the books and wrappers? This was her room anyhow, she could do whatever she wanted.

She sipped the cup of tea once more before balancing it between her pillow and a copy of Heller's Catch 22 she had yet to start. Fragile white hands picked up the package, she tapped her nails on it, she turned it around so the logo was facing down and patiently unpicked the piece of cellotape. This was her ballet, the only choreographed dance she practiced- but like a jazz musician, there was never a set routine. She turned it round again and broke open all four corners, then the paper crumpled as Chloe, almost in one go but slowly, tore off the wrapper which she threw on the floor. There it was facing her now, reunited at last! she picked it up and inspected it, she smelt its fresh aroma. Then she turned over the cover and read the first line:
"There was a thin child, who was three years old..." before dozing off to sleep.

Dunedin winter 2.

It's those deadlines dampening my imagination..
It reeks of mould!
I live in it but can scarcely afford to.
I'm forced to eat a thing green too but less tasty.

It's that lack of wretched money,
which we no longer see.
How can we depend on this immaterial God called one?
Not three or you and me...
It's 1001011010111.

For me it's 000010, account error and declined.

My imagination will dress up in black soon to dive.
Can i riot too?
Will I be bad?

Though justice and morality I hold dear,
They're too dear for me,
but my clothes mismatch.

Dunedin winter 1.

My mind has been fixed frozen in this permanent state of permafrost.
The words don't hibernate, too busy being stressed they've been subdued.
A dew too cold to move me out of bed again.
Again and again this cycle of exhaustion maintains my mind awake.
A paradox or paradigm?

Imagination tortured by Siberian guards,
My thoughts are bare naked- exposed.
Like the shelves.
Void of essence to sustain me.

Why clink that coin if it doesn't rattle?
Why work to tire?
Oh how harsh is sleep's suspire.

Whaikorero Pakeha

Cada dia el vent bufa les sorres mes lluny. La terra verda es torna rogenca a mesura que passa el temps. Es rovetlla quan mes s'exposa al vent inevitable del depart. Em transporta, m'agafa per les ales, observo aquests nuvols de coneixement- mons nous que cerco i analitzo amb curiositat pero alhora perdent-me en aquest laberint, rodejat de llibres que s'escriuen sols.

El temps es autor, autora. Autores pseudonymes, les Moires perfilen esquetxos que aviat seran obres d'art uniques i individuals. Cotoneres en aquest mon on les ximeneies de mao encara treuen fum. 

Ens castiguem amb aquest cancer, vigilam si us plau que no ho vaig poder fer per tu, aquest perfum es de segona ma.

Ens estem entretenin. Ja no trobem diversio en aquests trastos trencats. Cada canco cambia...

Mentre em perdo, en les cancons que no vull cantar, et vec pero no tens forma, et vull pero no tens ulls i et sento a tu. La canco parla de tu, pero no et coneixo encara, tot i que et vull. Et necesito.

Hi han creacions inescapables, crecions que ens creen i que ajudem a crear. D'atres ens presionen de forma sistematica. Em perdo escoltant els cants de les estrelles, llurs histories escriure. Pero, estrella meva, ets molt lluny d'aqui. Ets una imatge borrosa.

El vent bufa i em transporta, soc la sorra que trobes a la platja, entre els matolls, a vegades soc un desert pero d'altres em guardes. La meva montanya aguarda tresors de cultures i mons vells que ens son meus. El meu riu m'ha vist neixer pero mai creixer. Jo m'he mantingut lluny del transport que m'hauria pogut donar, de les idees que m'hauria pogut dotar. pero m'ha banyat amb un cultura i una llengua que no podre perdre. Una llengua que em permet volar. Volo i com una aguila veig els nuvols pero encara no et vec.

What education?

I seem to be immersed in it but at times I feel I'm learning nothing. I am one to believe we are forced to learn what is worth knowing in order to be a part of society. Degrees are structured much like apprenticeships, though they are much more flexible. As a marxist I think it's my job to see the education system, and universities in particular, as a factory. We are empty humanoid glass jars filled with a unique concoction of ingredients. Depending where we are, the spices used to flavour us will be different, the writing indicating who we are may be in another language or two. I have admitted that each of us is unique, my hints may be greener, redder, bluer, black... Take these as our political affiliations.We are all attracted to ideas, these we throw in sometimes hastily, when we're forced. Do you know when you throw in the parsley too soon? Its taste disappears. These ideas lost could be vital, they could be a glimpse of the machine's technology. Ideas are never useless, but different. Our ideas can be contradictory, do tastes not clash?

We too are dated. We go through stages of brewing, in which our main ideas are thrown into us. Sometimes ideas are forced into us against our will, or before we can handle them. Most of our ideas are made to fit to society's tastes. But we too are dated. Our ideas expire. This is not our fault; can you see that rust on the lever? Has that needle stopped turning? They've been running full blast on a recipe perfected to fit a bygone epoch.Though society has changed, education remains the same. It was made to be very useful, to allow us to fit into the economy, our culture, our intellectual superiority. We go into uni to think we are going to get a job, our ideas are nipped in the bud while we breathe false hope. Where does my creativity stand if I cannot express it... In our factory, corroded, our creativity is rendered useless. We live to work, forcing us to forget any restless ideas, or the delusion of a free spirit.


Society runs on more mental health drugs, caffeine shots and paradoxically crime then ever before. Though each of us is a jar, unique in our own ways, we are never allowed to fill the air with our own conclusions. Capitalism is a system of waste, and we are wasted. If we were each given time to express, taste our own ideas, test them and compare them- with no rush- we would find solutions, new ideas, art. There would be no need to lose our minds. Why should we overwork? Has the system not missed its deadline? Let it go, taste test and create- in the process you will also see past your labels and read others'.

Words amongst the I's

Nothing more common than two, three, four, more strikes of lightening in the same sodden sea.
Salted.., a spice?

The fragility of an ecosystem, a second's exposure too long! To long- to want.
A word, a common identity. Nothing. The graphite quickly glides across this crisp paper. It cracks. This sound is scribble. It colours in my sheets with those branded words that flow. A brainstorm, a downpour of ideas, mine!, escapes onto this pad. It splashes and hits you. Words broken by an impasse, between you and me, unbridgeable.
The spice differs, who/which.what are you?
The taste is mine. I taste this water, can you see? It's sweet.

Can you see my world? Can you hear it..? It now swirls like a moonlight traviata, I wish! My voice, it's in you.
This word, it has a fleshy texture. It is full, aromatic with the ideeas, tones, representations from me. This word, this world is me, you are in me. Can you be me?

Strikes of lightening in the same sodden sea.
Lights are frightening in this tame, assured, to be.

Don't look, See! Stay free! Watch me through you're silky veils, beautyful. I let you choose the colour. Hear me once and lost I am. To your pleasing I am either encaged and nourrished, keep that key tight! or I have gone. I'm a picture, if I last your choice.

Tongue twister.

Like a child, yet always me, I´m trapped. My words twist, tumble in my mind, they choke. About to leave the fortress hidden behind towers white, kept in by defences-against what?

Like a tongue twister:
"Where she sits she shines, and where she shines she sits".
Through the smell of coffee that fills the air, the glimmer of the sun is a background, touching her hair. The glitter in her eyes a sign? A reflection of what I want to see? Eyes the lake in winter´s wake, And I?, I wait... I wait for wake and flee.

Impossible to know how to talk, though talk I do each day.
Why when I see you, can I not free you from our chats in this small cafe.
Again always afraid, in my head my words are made,
as I look up, your eyes and nose and lips I smile, to yours,
the rumble and buzz, the words they bubble
- I hiccup-
they fade.
And when they return its late.

Natura non pensa sin homo sapiens.

As I see my world fall apart, this child of mine, I'm his!
A tantrum after another then a third ad infinitum.
It cries, it shouts. In its own little way.
It cannot think the way I think but who can?
It still traps me, I'm his!
Are we not all controlled by our children, our projects,
do we not want a better for them?

A better what?, a world.
My child is my planet,
it is my project and my playground.
So wise I think I am, so vain.
It is no more mine than my imagination's.
It is my reality. My reality is what I see
and to me it is no more.

Reality is subjective. It is mine,
like this world. But
this world is not. I own it not,
I play like a cat plays with the mouse.
Tough love? Torture.

Do i respect it or tease it must.

I use it, my child. For his 'benefit',
just mine..,
I control it and...
It dies.

When a fly is in a jar it dies.
Is it out of boredom- trapped?
Does it stop because it can no longer envisage future, or life?
Does it die because of suffocation or just from inattention, a lack of opportunity.

My world, my child, I'm his!
The lid well screwed now,
for time it has been trapped.
Will it suffocate or will it open?

Pandora. A world of beauty now, destroyed.
I'm not talking space but myth.
But does it open itself, is it open?
Its power immense, its beauty- skin tense. All skins.
Yours and mine but not those of death, but dying?
Diseased, increasingly wrinkly, its tone of death.
But who's?

Rakiura.

The land of the glowing skies in Maori and Stewart Island deserves its name. Although we were in the wrong season to see the southern lights, Stewart Island was an amazing escape- one which not many people in New Zealand, let alone the world see.

We woke up early on Monday, at 6 the car was practically frozen solid. Was this just the first frost of the trip? we wondered. We took the Southern Scenic route down, we knew we had to show Bec! The Catlins was nice, not great though. Too many farms and cows, I almost drove the car into a sinkhole of muck. Nugget Point though was beautyful. It looks out to the vast horizon, the next land too far and possibly unknown. It was sunny by now and we were glad! The walk up to the light house and then the drive through the township are well worth it, with seals in spring and summer time. We showed Bec the cities towns of Southland. Needless to say she wasn't too impressed. Big expanses of land with nothing, no landmarks or special features, no hills, just cows. She wasn't too impressed with Invercargill either. We took a stroll through the southernmost city in New Zealand to buy some utensils and plates... We had forgotten them and throughout the trip I'd remember even more essentials forgotten, later to be found on top of my bed waiting to be packed. We were going to grab a coffee but the place looked unappealing and rather dear, so we decided we'd make it to Bluff, where the ferry leaves from, book in and have one there.

Bluff is a much nicer town, looks like Port Chalmers, it has the portside feel of course, but it lacks the art. Shop windows bare, Bluff is obviously in its dying years, a shame... It is reputedly New Zealand´s first town. After the coffee we decided we´d leave the car on the lean mean streets of Bluff, when asked if safe a worker laughed ´safe here?´ as if saying 'from what?'!
The sun was setting on the West, the sky had exploded with colours. The orange and pink with purple, an exciting magic sense filled the air for us, draped in the most beautyful clothes. The lingering lights floated above the horizon. With them, the lights of this glowing sky, we were transported into Rakiura.
___________
I wake up to music, to the reverberations of the wooden planks struck by the boots of hikers like a xylophone to my ears. I can feel the music in my bones. We've come to prove our noble savage nature, which according to Russeau should make us happier than ever. We came to be awoken by the choir-like call of birds, for now it is the percussion of backpackers; different but equally exciting.
So keen I am to holiday I turned my phone off. I don't need it, not even for the time. I do not need to be controlled by the constraints of a routinely tick. I imagine it's early, there's light but it's just a floodlight beaming into our room.

Through the thin walls I can hear the laughs, and excitable conversation of groups, a murmur. I imagine the adventures I will face and I can project an excitement on those strides that woke me. I figure it must be just before dawn, I try to wake up the other two. I clear my voice, no reply. I can hear Bec's quiet breathing, is she awake- just snoozing? Joe is fast asleep. I rustle, leave bed and walk out. Neither twitch.
Someone is brushing their teeth and the kitchen lights are on. I notice my muscles do not feel rested... I deliberate whether going to bed or seeing dawn in Stewart Island, will I see the Australis? It's pitch dark but they always say it's darkest before dawn don't they?
I take a wander in the crisp air with my boots cracking on the gravel, no birds, no people, odd. I succumb to the force of time, I manage to spot a clock through the curtains of the reception, between the bars of soap and guides probably available only at exaggerated prices. It must be wrong... I feel quite confused, 11.20? No way! I take a second glance... have I really just had two hours sleep? It may take a bit longer to hit dawn! The laughing my ears can pick up on again must actually be the reaction to a drunken tale, that stretch by that person may just be a shuffle to re-balance, he's improvising as he's noticed I'm watching him.
My muscles do need rest, and I a clock... Maybe my body-clock runs too quick, too slow or not at all due to my unhealthy balance between the late work and early uni, as well as a lot of running around in stress. As I start to doze I hear a watch beep, it's 12 at night, now morning.

>>
The chirping of birds indicate it is now morning, and that yes is the sunlight- not the beam of a floodlight. After a quick breakfast we take a walk to the Department of Conservation's office, we fill in the form and less than an hour later we are looking down on Oban from a small hill. It is a windy road out of the township, following the coast. We walk past houses that have some of the most scenic beaches as front yards. Through the white soft sand runs a small stream. Its waters come from the forests above and give to a see in which there is a postcard reflection of the sun leaving horizon for the day. We already encounter wildlife, paradise ducks and we see signs warning us of kiwis. Our bags are heavy, we have kilos of wood to keep us warm in the huts, we've been warned. As we each hide our initial aches there is a phone attached to an electricity pole. Goodness knows how long it's been there, and it's too early to take the ear piece and talk into the  cone-like speaker. If we wanted to, there was no beep.
Stewart Island is much warmer than we expected, the sun is shining on our cutlery as we eat lunch on the beech. The breeze is a marked contrast to the humid forest we've just been walking through. This forest is said to have changed little since the prehistoric ages of dinosaurs and meteorites. There are ferns in many colours, they resemble palms in their size. There are also a million different types of trees competing to get fresh air. The path we now walk through has been cleared of all the debris on the forest floor, where moss and lichen cover the fallen, hit by the particles of light that float down, uncaught by the leaves above. Our backs still hurt from the weight of the wood. As darkness starts to fall we all become quiet, we are feeling tired of walking and sometimes we are separated by our different paces. When we finally get there our backs become freed, it feels as if I'm growing wings! A sense of relief and pain all at once along my shoulder blades. We tell each other that tomorrow there will be less weight, as we burn some of the wood today. But entering the living quarters we find a glowing fire, with wood, an axe and more to cut.

Escapism.

She should have been doing her homework, she'd later realise all she did was homework. This time though she was writing about what she saw. That boy, looking glum, staring at her as if she was just a tree, or a horse or something- a thing... His face, balancing ontop his hands, his frown... He was there. Sophie was there. Riding her horse when all of a sudden the clouds turned grey, the winds swept up and pulled her hat away. She gasped and looked back, she pulled the reins and quickly started following it. The thunder roared and lightning flashes dawned the sky of light. They were galloping, in this wet rain and so was he, no longer frowning but enjoying this dismal weather. I wouldn't laugh at the cold wet rain, it bites back and makes you stay in bed for days with a fever but there he was. Laughing, which sounded odd. They both galloped and rode and hit the woods, the rain poured no longer dripping, branches creeped and the wind whisteld through. The only sound in here, other than the horses, was the wind hitting the forest trees. The sound made them sway and you could here the swaying, such a hollow sound drummed by the rain. No birds but an owl hooting. It was eerie but Sophie enjoyed it. They both galloped again, they both knew where they were going but never spoke- Could he speak? He wasn't laughing now. Then there were others, that girl who she had rode past was still playing with her sister and three older boys were playing with a ball of socks. They were here, she didn't know their names but knew their faces, she had seen them often but never said hello, they were always too far, unhappy and accusing. Yet she thought of them every day and here they were!
This patch of forest was dry, in fact it was sunny and warm. A warmth Sophie had only experienced once before on that beach in Northern France. She only just remembered that beach, with the soft sand which was perfect for castles and the water which seemed to be warmer than her normal baths! What a place! What a forest and so many kids, her age, she was happy at last and parked her horse.

L’enyorança.

Aquell sentiment de pèrdua,
el trobar a faltar;
els moments, situacions,
països i persones diferents.

L’enyor d’aquell record,
el record d’aquell lloc;
recordant-ho amb una olor,
foto, nom, soroll o situació.

L’enyorança...              
Un sentiment que m’ha plenat,
desde sempre.
A cops un es pregunta:
« Què seria jo si allí no hagués
estat?
Què seria de mi sense aquella
gent?
Com seria, qui seria? »
És simple, no seria.

L’enyor d’un moment,
d’una persona, d’una terra,
d’una gent.

Hi han cops on un es pregunta,
somia, imagina i recorda;
un món que no es el seu,
un món on les decisions
haguessin estat diferents,
equivocades?
Mai.

Cadascú és lo que ha vist,
sentit, pensat, recordat...

Jo soc el que he viscut,
fet i decidit.

Soc el que ara aquí estic.

Spain

They're silent their lives,

under threat of being an unknown,

unfit for a society unequal.

They shout and are heard first time ever maybe.

Will their voices grow silent again?

This time with afony or the hushing they have been taught since occupying that scratched desk used as a sign of power and superiority hitherto.

Who has the power when all we have learnt is to criticise the criticisable and play when our insight begins to zoom in... We are young and malleable when taught. 

I felt powerful engraving my name in that desk.

A desk supported by flimsy legs that couldn't fall.

It has.

It has started now to capsize and my initials on that desk are just that,

but now initials -Oh young!- watching that first domino and shouting and I'm hoarse and my energy, like theirs, was drained 'til now.

Post Midnight Rain

Night befallen, I lay in bed.

So calm in silence.

I'm in the sea of tranquility- 

its existence oft unknown to me.

My eyes closed,

sounds echo in the depths of my caverns.

The drops of the shy rain 

hiss in unison- their

constant downfall mitigate their drumming.

A crash on the ground silenced

by the next one, a pound.

I imagine them travelling up my window,

their footsteps subtle knocks, but

they slip and never reach the top,

dragging their delicate bodies down

until they finally drip and hit the floor.

As the clouds disappear in the dark light,

drops cease to visit

and footsteps' traces 

disappear.

The sole reminder of this late night shower

are the synchronised tangs that

hit the roof above.

A metallic splatter that reverberates,

in time too will slowly fade 

aft into sleep I'll have succumbed,

vistim of its ticks.

Rains forgotten, even

before they've gone.No trace to be left.

Its remnants heated by the early rays of sun.

Section.

Sarah just sat there in her bed. She could hear the walls of her temples being stripped and agony filled her heart. Her head hurt while she cried silently, not wanting to be heard. The first time you hear destruction it tears your world apart, when you see it later though, falling it crumbles beneath your feat and cracks, one foot each side of the divide; you realise that you are witnessing a situation that seems all but sane, your vision is already blurred with tears that will soften a reality too harsh to bear- you cannot see through a crystallized, glossy stare.

Excerpt from a future play.

stream

A glacid stream,
older than man can count.
A journey which never ends;
it sometimes rushes,
it sometimes crawls,
it may hide,
it may fall.

Its path perfected day by day,
a path so deep so green
it's a crafted piece of jewellery.

It finds a brother, they create a river
of blue unseen before.
Turquoise waters flow down this valley,
where trees of all sorts you can find,
and fruit of each and every kind.

They scent the air, colour the leaves.
All because of a single, little stream.

First to you-

Every time I look into your eyes I feel

my heart pound like an earthquaked ground,

my stomach fills with butterflies,

a feeling for you that never dies.

You make me smile reasonless,

you make me feel speechless.

All I can say, all I can think

every time I look into those eyes of yours

is that I love you.

I don't know why, I can't help it,

I just do.

Natura sapiens

I think we're all so set at looking down
that'm not seeing above our horizon of roofs
we've got mountains, na tis old.
And one tone higher than the whirr of cars
we've got an incessant melody of birds. It's
that background music against this noise in our minds. That motor.

We never look up from this street pavement, now wet with ponderings and muddles,
To see the rain dropping on your face makes you hide.

We never realise we hurry to places we don't want to be. Rush to meetings or rencontres in which we don't say much or learn.
Patience, beauty and that green we all cultivate next to that soggy paper.
Often all we see is a metallic grey of cars,
the bright red of lights and another street,
again.

Inspect those old paths below our feet, do we look, follow?
That puddle fills.
We're too scared to take that walk through the leaves in autumn.

Do we ever smell nature? Do we notice the sweet smell of trees or can we scent the rich aroma of ground under water?
Do we ever hear the leaves crunch beneath our feet or feel them? Are those birds I hear?
Am I looking?.. at that building of stone and metal or am I just seeing the clock behind those trees, over that river- with ducks.
Have we conquered nature with our black paths and roads? Have we trapped it, cornered it, controlled it yet?
We sweep those leaves and mow that lawn, we trim the tree. We do control it, but its branches loom over us and they are dripping on the back of my head, drooped over these pages.
I make a fleeting glance up and miss the tones of the clouds, I cannot see the shades of nature for they have dripped too far. But my page is darkened now as I cast my shadow from the light to protect it from this wretched rain.

Again?

Intro.

I've been writing for quite a long time, a bit of everything too. There is poetry, descriptive narrative, plays, short stories and all in the three languages I know well: Catalan, English and Spanish.I'm quite vain, or my genie loves me greatly, so much of the stuff is how I feel, but isn't all writing just a subjective expression put into words? I don't believe in strict structures so don't be too worried if my poems turn into prose and viceversa, shit happens!

This wee blog will contain some of my writings in several languages and there will be tags for you to navigate through it all if you wish.

Oh, and feel free to comment!