I’m really struggling to find Big O’s voice in this project. I’ve tried not writing in first person but it comes off very cold (which I suppose could be good thing) but I always end up flipping it back again. Worse, the words which are coming out are far more banal than the ideas which sound in my head. Frustrating, yes. Unusual, no.
the shadow of today
one long year ago i was abruptly evicted from your world for no good reason
no reason at all really
after foolishly
trying to rescue you & failing
which i suppose was all just a half-cocked attempt to save myself from insanity’s solitude
now i am worse than i was before
having forgotten how to sing
or even — why i once did
Day 13 – TILI learnt about birth & lightning but not maths
the odds of — giving birth to a baby at 12:01am on January 1 are around 1 in 526,000*
which is roughly the same as getting struck by lightning
the odds of — giving birth to a baby at 12:01am on January 1 while getting struck by lightning
involves — knowledge of maths way way above my pay grade
A fragment of a song & a in-depth look at a very real phenomena for older Australians.
museless
i’ve lost my voice worse i’ve nothing worth saying the songs cannot be sung the notes no longer sound the words will not form the world is hoarse with my grief
Day 11 – TIL about a highly triggering word
useless
Ackwards is (allegedly) an old English dialect word describing a creature lying on its back that can’t get up.
I’d just like to say:
1. I’ll have you know I’m choosing not to get up, So, thank you very much
2. Get your damn camera Out of my room before I call the cops big time.
3. It’s a bit awkward that The only reference I can find To this on the whole internets is one. solitary. tweet.*
*Twitter! Now there’s a creature on its back that can no longer get up …
I wrote this (well the first draft of it) dictating it into my phone as I lay in bed about 3am this morning, unable to sleep. I was just trying to record some ideas that have been roiling round in me for much of the past fortnight (possibly longer). Sure, I’ll be glad when April is over, but I gotta say it’s been hella good therapy.
When I looked at it again around 7am, I realised it made a dreamy kind of poetic sense so instead of ripping phrases out & assembling them, I thought I’d try a different poetic technique & go with the flow. This consisted mainly of tidying up the times I had to repeat myself cos it didn’t understand what I was saying & deciphering some of the VRS’s quirkier interpretations. Adding a phrase or two here & there, but really very little.
When I read it again at 11pm in preparation to post it, I cried. (But then I always have been a bit of a sook!)
*****
dream of consciousness
we spoke with such softness and hope … of a life we might live together … we felt like everything was coming together the way it was meant … the way it should’ve done years ago … years and years ago … where all those missed opportunities finally reached fruition … like flowers being born … after long years in dry ground … waiting for the rains … of being fully awake … fully alive … at last … we discussed living together … we discussed weddings … we discussed babies … we discussed beliefs … talk of souls and eternities … re-discussed lives together … loves together … lives passed … lives present … we really did wonder if we’d known each other before … been together before … as if some web connected us through time … and space … the dark matter mattered … and for a few months it felt like everything we did … tapped into that magic stream … we appreciated everything … it was all wondrous and wonder full … the connection … the constant need to be in contact … the thousands and thousands of text messages … over 7000 last time you counted … sure about 6500 were from me to you … but still … along with hundreds of photos and videos … little snippets of where we were … what we were doing … random thoughts … random things … tiny silly things … things that made us smile … made us happy … things we thought we’d do together one-day … road trips that we go on … places we’d visit … things we’d write … plays we’d be remembered for … play time
the hardest thing is … you took away the fear in my heart … filled it with joy and laughter and hope … and now going back to what it was … is worse than it never filling in the first place … but I think I get it … seems now you only were ever half-present half-engaged half-involved half-accepting half-believing half-wanting … half of where I was … I know that’s a lot of halves
you say you don’t believe in fairytales … that life isn’t a fairytale … but it could’ve been … and more … could’ve been better than that … we had all the ingredients … we had the potential the promise the prospect … the energy of fire … the connection (again with that word) … the buzz … the celestial bees buzzed right through us … through me anyhow … when I’m brave enough … to look back through some of the photos … or god forbid … read some of the messages … we sent to each other … I still can’t understand why … why you didn’t want this
My two wallowversaries are quite close together this year — Good Friday & Easter Sunday. GF being Day 1 of the Festival of Grief, ES Day 2. Each year I don’t know whether I’ll write about my grief on the date it happened or the day. Some years it’s both. The interesting thing about choosing a theme for the month is it makes me approach topics I’ve written about countless times with fresh eyes. Such as this …
to pin a wish
my only-ever astral child my first star girl my free spirit my whispered wish
only briefly tethered postmarked but never delivered addressed but never sent never faded never dimmed always present in my heart
would’ve loved you with my whole soul every ether of being guided you from child to woman as best i
cradled you comforted you held eggshell close gifted free range love love loved
walked you down any aisle — assuming i could see given my eyes are waterfalls simply imagining such moments
the first wish i’d make if any benevolent genie ever give me a chance
my beautiful wondrous astral-only child my heart was torn away the day you ran red down your mother’s legs
A slightly post-modern, self-referential metafictional style poem — which, when I was doing my preparations, I thought I’d be excited to see the #1 come up, but when it arrived, I was like “Oh no, I have no energy for all that”. But it was actually fairly easy flowing. I kinda like the end product (good jumping off point for revision hopefully) … & it uses every call I found about number 1 — including a very modern one. So pretty chuffed. Plus if I upload it quickly, I’ll get 20 minutes off.
#01
i am the B1 baby first on the board at the beginning of all time
i am little Jimmy who sees with Kelly’s eye
lack of sleep means
i don’t always make sense
but when i do
— Nelson’s column —
i am the son of a gun top of the pops number ace Bernie’s formula means i win the race
now if only someone would
make me a number three
& maybe butter a scone but i’d better not lie down
or my marathon will be gone
gareth roi poet boi 