he stepped back into childhood like a warm bath. back to
the house and garden, the inside no longer brimming
with things that could or should be changed. a backdrop, then
to the memories which this time played outside,
stood by the in the garden, looking up, around, window to
window and across the old bricks.

your pardon
begged
once again
for this and any other

inconvenience

take away the
thoughts and
douse them in
warmth
and the
stench,  of
hot death

always and
forever
because why else
would we be here

Each of the frames
moments
caught in reflection in those spare
seconds

hands
touching the face, now that its
real
at least for a moment

and inside
voices

a radio heard
for those times
and these
and the future

another lie inter
up

said Ted.
disagreement to fine

and too avoided to be
missed
like yesterday

and the life before

Into and out
of the thoughts, she goes
ever present since

that first day

in memories, faked
real and pretend
till ever more

Into and out
of the thoughts, she goes
ever present since

that first day

in memories faked,
really and pretend
till ever more

So. That went quite fast then; faster than I expected, and so I didn’t quite get chance to see in 2010 with any more than a shudder, and then, well, here we are in a new year. So happy new year to one and all.

Thus far, I have managed to break all of my new year’s resolutions, since I am neither sober nor fitter, and yet still retain a fear of social contact such that here I am, on a saturday night, compiling details for a tax return rather than doing anything more interesting with my life. We went out today, though, and I took photos. That is the new mission: to overcome the loss of creativity that took its cancerous grip in 2010, and to photograph, maybe to write, and perhaps sometimes to set fire to buildings in a particularly artistic way.

2011 brings with it the promise to shoot my second feature film. This is truly an adventure, and those can be good, once the panic of existence is put to oneside.

Perhaps poetry will come back. I miss the lines, and still compose, sometimes, in my head. But they rarely make it out, staying instead in the prison of imagination, awaiting the release of the iceman.

Welcome, then, to the new year. Welcome to the new old, to the promise of change and the reliability of not. Welcome to the hope that sometimes lasts until almost the end of the first month, before the self delusion is drowned and the new year turns to carbon of the past.

May it be happy, and prosperous, to one and all.