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Wednesday 4th March 2009.

The apartment i am sheltering in from the wild woods over looks a grave yard...if there was a church it is no longer standing...rusty iron gates and stone walls enclose,the lush green grass is neatly trimmed,the stones themselves come in visions of those Peter Cushing...Christopher Lee..Hammer house of horror films from my youth...Most of this square grave yard capturing time past is surrounded by apartments, as i have stood in the evening warmth,glass of chardonnay in hand on the balcony i wondered how old ghosts had defeated developers and how the noisy brilliant white cockatoos seem to sing also about such battles.
I find Fate surreal,in the fact that the birds are white,when death is so portrayed as black....the standing stones quite comforting after myself being thrust into the washing machine of abused words recently.I will indeed pull once more on my Walking boots,throw into the memory bank of horrors the comforting words of it is not about you, hoping such words will ease the small splinter of words i have trod on.I will no longer walk in bare feet in such company..i have no intention of going back,i have tied my last pink laced hobnailed boots for such people.
Which does make me melancholy,yet without the madness which is a blessing as i am so far from home.
I will close now,i think a shower in his sticky heat,before i pull on my black walking boots.life for me is not so much being knocked down but the ability to stand once more,yes the older i become standing is not an easy jump up,but a steady rise until i stretch out and touch the moon.

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
foucaultonacid
Mar. 4th, 2009 03:12 am (UTC)
tomas woolf says you can't go home again...

it's true

but you can build home where you are... carryit with you where you roam
(Anonymous)
Mar. 4th, 2009 06:26 pm (UTC)
BOO!! NOT ABOUT YOU!!
NO, it is NOT about YOU, if it were about YOU, there would be chocolates and other treats, chardonnay and foaming mirth, laughter, soft pink lamplight, ivory lace, soft memories, warmth of flesh pressed in embrace and hands joined, gentle words and wonder at the love that makes us family whether by fate or by choice. A pity the stepmonster chooses to toss the gift away before tugging at even one of the ribbons to gaze at the wonder inside. Hers the loss not yours, and "his" the loss for choosing her in the first place. He seems to have a history of choosing cold loveless women, that is about HIM NOT YOU either. He must not feel worthy of love himself to choose her, she's incapable, reptilian, incapable of warmth. What a sad empty waste of time is their lives.

You know you always have a home in my heart dearest one. Friends and lovers are the family WE choose. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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