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.