bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

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 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.

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