Tag Archives: promise

being at your station:

The sound of the rain & the cool breeze across my face transports me to my then, second rental property in a suburb called Petersham. Walking onto the few dry bricks between the back door & the laundry. Walking barefoot to do grown up things; like check you have enough clean underwear for the next day at work. You try to honestly determine whether those clothes that may have been marinating in your washing machine should be ok, even though they smell a little funny, or could they possibly be washed again? It’s incredible that the most mundane of tasks can provide a direct link to a younger you. I slam the door of the washer & await the sound of the water starting to rush in. As it starts, the sound of the rain washes in again, only much louder this time. The sounds struggle at first before my ears tune in & accept them as one new sound. My concentration drifts as I step into darkness & I’m walking out the back door of the old house.

My feet are cold but it’s ok. I’m content in processing that this is really Summer & the rain, if the humidity drops, could be a cool cool change. A guitar amp is humming. It’s not turned off yet as I’d promised myself to continue practicing, even in the rain. This, though housemates joked of electrocution & waters divined. I glance around, there is rust forming on each corner of the small bar fridge & the old dryer peeling paint at my feet. No one came out here much, except to visit me. I didn’t feel like it was just my place, but I felt happy here. An ornately half lit caged-in laundry-come-lock-up. A glorified shed or shelter, if you will. The feeling I felt both then & now, was of stepping out from a house that holds its heat & into the weather we’d been hiding from. As I stare, trying to remember the difference in smell, from place to place, the memories merge like one.

Besides the odd drop of rain atop the head, you’d feel mostly safe & dry out here. It’s not so much de ja vu as a familiar feeling being out here each time. It’s like in dreams, as such, I do not mind what I am doing, but am I’m happy doing it? Like never before. I enjoy the shift from inside to out but it’s time to go inside. I asses the washing that is not quite wet and far from dry as i pile it into the dryer, “Is it clean now?” I still wonder. It’s not the laundry that connects the moments but the feeling. I am truly happy. When you are happy it’s important to remember other comparable times. To stop & smell the roses, as they say.

This is the love we wondered about.

The younger you smiles and says, “See, I told you so.”
The now you smiles to say, “I’ll promise to try & not forget.”

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Filed under † † †, fortune, good evening, i love you, Uncategorized

:we could move mountains

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Filed under beginning, gestures, pictures, reference

precision is a fickle thing:

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Filed under black & white, burning star, constellation, photos

remember to forget:

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Filed under 2012, † † †, black & white, quarters end, working week

:to here knows when

Finding your own voice is a worthwhile pursuit. Telling a story takes time, telling your own story can take a lifetime. Arguably it is best left for another to tell, so one can focus on living. This life is for living, learning. This life is for loving. Life is not too short to enjoy, but it’s too short to waste.

Words get lost when we are scared of what other people think. The truth becomes hidden & to be accepted is to be surrounded. Is anything worse than to keep up an appearance? Playing a part is something that we feel pity toward in the lives of others, yet we are comfortable to play. Having something to say & someone to say it to, is what matters most. Stick to your guns, you know what you’re talking about.

Holding someone’s attention long enough to tell a story is hard these days, that charm & the ability to raise your voice, to exaggerate to make them laugh, is no competition for a handheld computer. Trust that the words you choose are important. In times of loss we go searching, for familiar foods, faces & sounds. For all the old stories & cartoons buried on dusty VHS tapes, we never look for something new. We trust the finding of our failures for once when we are sad, never when we are riding high. It’s like us to wallow & have a cave to regress to. It’s the reason battles always rage, as Pride has a louder tone than Sense in every war room briefing. It’s why souls are swept by fire & words need to hit the page to be remembered, at very least, the screen.

It’s not often you want to reach into every clock & roll time forward. Too often our lives are laced with regret. It’s the past that people are forever pining for. Being in love, truly in love is when you want time wasted, if only to speed up the time spent apart. To get to the end, to see if we’ve made it. Loss is a selfish act. But loving, can combine both. Both selfish & selfless. Depending on the mood & situation you find yourself in. Sometimes love is taken to the street for all to see. It’s just as good behind the sheets of an indoor fortress. Our love is a garden, a slow train, a promise.

I worry sometimes about how I will be remembered. I worry what people think. To spend a life living, only to be honoured for the fake. To be misrepresented, or even worse, forgotten. Although I think you’ll find it happens to us all. What I truly care about is that people keep loving. For if they do passion will continue to exist. Without passion there are no stories & without stories there is no love. A tale told opens the door to the heart, honest words keep the fire burning. 

In love & life.
It’s good to know your worth.


Filed under † † †, beginning

looking for space:

it takes some distance to reflect,
to stop, think, process, wait.
admitting  you are wrong is one thing,
what you do to address it is
another thing entirely.

some people talk a good game,
revealing little except results.
both playing cards close to the chest,
& from beneath the table.

what’s the point in just speaking,
about things you want to do.
when these things could already be removed
from the lists you’ll never write.

before the paper peels,
the train is missed,
& dreams are out of date.

time spent treading water,
isn’t wasted when,
you use it to survive.

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Filed under † † †, bad poetry, beginning, words, writing

:childhood memories

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Filed under † † †, childhood memories, fortune, greater circles, skies above

unless you speak from your heart:

observations of a busy street.

a book store smells a certain way,
the comfort of a million stories.
time spent will unlock its promise.

a ball of twine is a welcome sight,
the promise of something to be made or mended.

a couple, drinks water in different ways.
one from the glass, one straight from the gym.

a friend pulls a friend away from a passing bike.
the way they smile at each other afterwards,
suggests they’ve been friends for a while.

moments later, we’ll be someplace else.
minutes later, we’ll be gone.

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Filed under and the kid that plays piano..., † † †, bad poetry, childhood memories, family, favour, fortune, words, worlds, writing