i have no map...

....for where i am going


That is not to say that there exists no such map, merely that i am yet to find it. Many have asked me to create said map so that future generations need not travel blind, but i see little glory in being a sacrificial lamb.

The Dirk Gently novels. The movie I <3 Huckabees. The book Icelander by Dustin Long. All feature existential detectives. All touch on the universal plight of us mere humans attempting to detect a meaning in the noise, a purpose for existance.

But Little Birdy scream "Existance is purpose!". Garth says to Wayne "Live in the now, man!". So we give up our quest and settle for red wine and fine cheese, and savour the instant. Why battle for change, when the result is trading one imprisionment for another?

Maybe one day we can all be comfortable, but i doubt it.

empty, a ghost

i look at my hand but all i see a shell of thin flesh around nothing.


Walking home, i saw some flowers that looked just like the "rawk" hand symbol, \m/. They were pretty cool, and i gave them a brother-in-arms salute.

As i left she asked for a hug, but i couldn't do it. i wonder if that will be our final meeting, if we'll ever meet again. it seems a weird note to end on, though in truth, the worst bit is that it took so long for it to happen.

"i always think of you" she said, and i wanted to but didn't say "i'm trying to forget you".

the planned relocation is only partly due wanting to run away, its also something i've been meaning to do for some time, but the breakup helps defeat my inertia.

a wise man once told me "it only hurts if you hold on". this applies to water skiing as well as relationships. i'm trying to break the grip, but something is snagged. i've started making lists of the things i dislike about her, but it seems to make it worse.

as i left, she blew me a kiss, exquisite torture, to be loved but not wanted by an old girlfriend.

The duck and the monkey

The duck and the monkey travelled the world together. Across oceans the monkey would perch on the ducks head, holding an old tea towel as a sail, to augment the duck's paddling. In jungles the monkey's tail would hold the duck by its legs, and they would swing through the trees.

Eventually they found their home, a forrested island in the middle of a lake in the middle of an island. Each day they would go for a swim then a swing, followed by a light supper of cheese and olives. A bedtime story would be read, then lights out, off to bed. Sometimes duck would sing an old duckish lullaby, on cold nights they would huddle, but on hot nights they were spread out, often only touching at one point of contact, wing to tail or webbed foot to furry hand.

They were happy.

sunday nights are the worst...

....it take all the strength not to call you. You used to always say "Wot-cha doin'?" in a cheeky voice. I was never doing any thing interesting, or if i was i lied.

There is a pattern on the roof. I have discovered the dog constellation and the creepy person constellation and the Eiffel tower constellation. Once you see one pattern you can never see anything else unless you trick your brain, like you look above the dog and see a ship with a penguin for the captain, and the dog's tail becomes part of an anchor.

Self destruction can be difficult to achieve. I usually prefer to run. I'm never sure if i'm running away or running towards something, but i figure you can be doing both. I'm running away from you, from the heart ache, from what our relationship says about me. I'm running towards a new me, towards risk. I'm not entirely sure about this. Maybe i should stop running and try crawling back to you.

Every email i get, every phone call, every text message, i'm always hoping its from you. But even if it is from you i know that i'll respond out heart break and not out heartfulness. I still love you, as i hope to meet you walking down the street, but i know if we met i would channel the hurt of seeing you rather than the hurt of missing you.

Naked but for these scars

I shaved every hair from my body. I was about to spend 2 months in solitude at a moutain retreat, an old monestry. I wanted a tangible measurement of the length of my isolation. As my hair grew back, my soul would mend.

The initial sensation of being completely shaved is coldness, followed by hightened sensitivity. I could feel every draft, i could feel the landing of a tiny fly on my skin. The slightest touch felt like a punch, grass felt like razor blades.

When i was alone, i spent hours just feeling my body, running my hands over evey square inch. I found countless scars, some forgotten, some surprisingly small, others unchanged. My head especially was a hairless sea with islands of scar tissue.

Over the next two months i meditated on the story of each scar. I wrote down these stories, some only a paragraph, three of them surpassed ten pages. Each story had a meaning, each meaning was a fragment of my being, of who i was, of who i had become.

Some scars were sins, others told of the value of friends and good health. One, from the removal of tumour, was concerned with the God of Destruction. I had no favourites - they were all a part of me, even the bad ones gave me hope and peace.

On my last day, with my hair regrown and looking fairly normal, i gave my self a new scar, the story of which you have just read.