echo

Movement..

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 02:03:46 GMT

echobelly

Wed, 11 Apr 2007 00:05:51 GMT

----------------------------------------------------------------------- It feels like time to close up here.

This blog has really been just one long letter,
and yesterday it felt like the right time to let it go.

This has been an odd story, but it has been one I am so very glad to have been a part of, it's been fun, emotional, and in truth, a life saver; but it's time for a little break, a wee trip, and then, I hope, something new.

Something anyway..

Later...
..and much love,

David.

Life on Mars?

Mon, 09 Apr 2007 23:46:09 GMT

It is not an impulsive change, like I woke up a different, or suddenly felt magnificent and lapped the morning dew.

No no no.
It has taken forever.

It is more subtle than that; but there is a bound and a spring in my pace today. Perhaps it's all those Easter bunnies, maybe it's just all chocolate. Life has literally begun: I have a new second cousin, she will have a name, and I will spoil her rotten. Perhaps it's because I sort of get it: I have the world on a stick and string, one little salsa step away, and I have a new and unusual friend who has put up with a surprising amount of hot air these last few months, but I do love her to bits, and that has been well said. Enough.

I left everything behind looking for new beginnings, but found a world so alien, so unrecognisable from my own that I truly staggered for a little, all that ebb and flow, so much to learn from the unpitying curve; and today it is not over, today is not born again, a monument to the new, for that is for fools and fiction. It is just another day, but it is a day where all the oddities, all this off-world landscape begins to look more like a place I know, it is the start of what was, in a place that was not, it is a good day, maybe the very best of days.

And I am home.

There is Life on Mars after all,
Who would ever, ever have thought that?

Happy Easter

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 02:06:17 GMT

Anniversary

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 09:31:53 GMT

Meeting You at Dawn

Tue, 03 Apr 2007 08:52:41 GMT

The light detonates upon us. From the dark, bass drenched safety of the playground to the sudden, clammy impact of early morning asphalt; we are here. We are solid now, fleshy and pale under the quizzical emanations of the day. We can no longer conceal that which is best kept shy, that which is our very own, our reality. I don't know you, and our entanglement thus far has been the product of another, more base, chemistry; but I like you and that, I imagine, makes for something. It has to.

The 7-Eleven has become an occupation and we lose us for an age between the isles, like rows and rows of plastic fruit, a deception of some magnitude. You look for orange ice pops; I hunt for breakfast amongst the ranks of sweet falsehood. There is nothing more for us here. At the counter, two ice pops to the good, my change spits from my pocket as I try to pull out what is left with a damp hand, the nickel shower now ringing about our feet. I look into your eyes, slightly panicked, but I am shielded, not alone. Together we drop and collect the spill, we are in slow-motion, the master of deception, and his ravenous till, can wait.

Back out amid the eyes, accusing and disapproving, we hang our ice pops about our mouths, they are sweet and serve us well in our grounding, and I shiver as my tongue runs across its clingy edge. You do not. We find shelter against a gloomy wall in the shade of the giant 7, greedily lapping at our hands; you look at me over the top of yours as it feeds you. And in your eyes, eyes that I still do not know, I see past our ingest, our prescription, and for a tiny, but indelible moment, I am close to you.

Then I wish, as I hope do you, that this, this orangey buzz, is not the sugar finding my emptiness, but conceivably something new, something solid and pale, something that can live in a world less chemical, less self-indulgent; that can survive the daylight and all of its illusory ways, orange and unfaithful. It is, I hope, not just a grounding, but the start of something worthy. A beginning.

In this age, my age, of ruddy falsity and self deception, of chemical love, induced and momentary, delusive; and under the icy protections of a lofty 7, I am exchanging wordless reams with a Someone that I do not yet know, and that I like, and I am absorbed in the prospect of a more daring, more solid and hitherto undreamt future.

And at length we take our ice-less sticks, held in sticky hands, deep into first light bustle and dissolve, together, into a world with all the colour of our tongues, binding and complex; and into the semblance of body warmth and the enchanting sobriety of the sleeping day.

And so we were.

iknowisaidiwouldnttellbutthisisHOWitsdone:

Wed, 28 Mar 2007 22:43:14 GMT

What is past is prologue.
William Shakespeare

Subterranean Brick-pit Soft Rock Rue

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 22:52:46 GMT

That tunnel opened and yesterday I took it and thought of you and our little subterranean adventure with all the sepia hues that memory can afford. And I have to admit that it saddened me and blanched my skin, as it slipped under all that make believe light: after all that time, so many lights and years, we became just rock and dirt, a memory for the keeping. And then the Gore Hill loomed and the sun, so low and near its end, shone lightly on my face, chipping at the rue. And I believed, or listened, to that little voice, resonating through all that blood and bone, it has travelled me so, little little scars, and it spoke of the past, much like the tunnel, fixed and unfixable, and of the uncertainty of the lay, the unexpected, the closeness of new intimacy. That thing, delivered by old sun, delicious and engaging, slate and past, is no tunnel, is no linear fold. No. It is exemption, the get out of jail free, not judge nor jury; but a glimpse of all that may or may not become. It is choice and consequence and love. It is air, free to breathe and trackless.

Yesterday I did not take the quick way home, through the harbour tunnel and yet more perpetual sameness, I chose the airy path and wallowed in all the curiosity of that beautiful landlocked bridge, and the view it so reluctantly yields; and I felt I connected, for just a breath or two, with the millions and millions of stories, much like this one, my very own, the weight of the city and all the lumbering hearts, so effortlessly borne.

Either of two punctuation marks used to enclose contextual material:

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 14:08:26 GMT

[you but may I be do hard get to you. read,]

Something..

Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:03:01 GMT

It's cold, wet and rather blowy outside,
All our clocks must go back one in two,

And just then, not more than a moment ago,
I really fancied a cuddle.

Note to Self

Sat, 24 Mar 2007 12:56:23 GMT

Well, when it comes to you..

Tue, 20 Mar 2007 02:27:52 GMT

love

(oh, and me thankyou for

bailing me at

the petrol station this morning, what would me do

without you)

From the Kitchen

Sun, 18 Mar 2007 10:46:25 GMT

Friday, late: You kissed me quickly on the cheek as you left me, a casual peck - nothing more, unexpected and full of life, but your haste glimpsed me a view of your mindset, a terrain I recognise with some intimacy: an over mused intention then spilling the flimsy wall of inhibition; a reaction, no more words to spend here. You were gone. And though we had tattled for just one hour, three times in which you asked me of where I live; I thought you were nice and I wish now that I had told you so when I had the steam, the roll of the liquored tongue, for life is far too short to spend draped across what should have been.

Yet I let you go � my voice hushed and still the weight and the churning. And I need to learn, I need to let go still more, to move on, I really do; but it is a thankless struggle. Marked so very distinctly, so predictably, by the trappings of cutesy inhibition, of secrets and the ensuing deceit, of the glitch and its grating teeth, and of course these little electronic sighs, the wispy articulations of an almost perfect martini: vodka, a little vermouth and a splash of deepest regret.

Another Sunday Letter

Sun, 11 Mar 2007 04:33:48 GMT

Brook Street Exit

Fri, 09 Mar 2007 06:11:07 GMT

A pin-up story, something lost, something cherished and yet lost, and then, years later in the most unlooked-for moment imaginable: found, chanced amidst the nettles, the fall of something unrelated yet, to a point, connected, found and then held close, something beautiful, something meaningful in all its apparent meaninglessness, something in recent honesty that listens perhaps just to us, it is unhinged, it has life, is life, is real, now; and though I may have wished, I didn't, for a flyspeck second, believe that what has become, what this is, what is now, could ever, in my deepest well, have been.

Circle Game

Mon, 05 Mar 2007 12:09:09 GMT

World Wide Wonder

Sat, 03 Mar 2007 09:16:04 GMT

let us go back in time; for some of the most radiant moments that have passed my eyes are when I thought things would be as were.

forever.

</sentimental>

Dot Com

Fri, 02 Mar 2007 06:59:32 GMT

Click, click� pause, dilate, consider, she sound's too� something. Sigh. Back to search� just the word� search; it sounds so desperate, so needed, like I've lost something, deep in the sea, and I have host of well paid automata scouring, combing the floor, for my secrets. For perfection. Bathe her and bring her to me. It's so utilitarian. But fuck, it's fun. Scroll down some more; nope, nope, nope� click .. nope. Crikey! What is that? Not sure. Moving on.

Inbox: One new kiss - I couldn't resist � your sense of humour. Really? I should tell more jokes� seems I'm the funny man� more gab in the ego in please� I feel great. Reply � I couldn't resist � your well toned thighs. Well it's all about honesty right? Like driving, you irritatedly question, sometimes potently, the paternal lineage of many others on the road, waving your hands about like an Italian footballer who's just been told that his local Tony & Guy are going under. You've got two tonnes of steel and a Magic Tree between you and the source of your annoyance; it's too easy to be mad. Well it's the same here; all wires and plastic.. some keys, a fancy LCD, nothing real.. nothing solid.. nothing. Say what you want, fuck, say what you mean, finally an honest medium. Except it's not. It's anything but, but nobody cares.

It's the screen between contestant and host saddled date, that flies back in dramatic and sometimes traumatic revelation. It's a line of first defence, thirty seconds to fall in love now protracted over weeks, perhaps even months of remote, sensory deprived, or depraved, interaction. Weird. In a good way, like I said: It really is quite good fun.

Don't look for the website, to be honest, like so much asked and answered here:

It is simply not all there.

Wed, 28 Feb 2007 13:26:41 GMT

Actually

Wed, 28 Feb 2007 00:09:55 GMT

Scratch that.

Self indulgent and melodramatic, all this talk of destruction.

But.

I would like to earn back your trust, for I realise that it is difficult to earn and yet so easily spent. Perhaps I am better off catching falling aeroplanes.

But I'd like to try.