Lifetime supply

 

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Stasis and flow

The philosophy of being

Staying true

The science of belief

Sensing almost nothing is

We stare into a dying sun

Shield our eyes from its deceptive light

And hold on to anything

We do not know

Because not knowing

Still holds potential

While knowing

Keeps us always where we are

Not one step further

Down the track.

 

 

 

Words and image are my own.

©2018

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Boogaloo down Broadway

 

Over the river

 

A rusty new sky

Being birthed

Over sleepy silhouettes

But I’m not sleeping

Oh no

I am moving towards you

Making my way back

To you

To the place where light

Dances

And long shadows conceal

To reveal

To the streets that

Vibrate

Underfoot

And the lines that stretch upwards

Towards convergence

Where green comes in sharp bursts

And the light of beauty

Duels playfully

With crass neon seductions

That never sleep

And I am not sleeping

No

I am making my way back

To you.

 

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Words and images are my own.

 

©2018

The song remains the same

 

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I’ve been pretty absent these past months. Other projects as well as just ordinary, everyday, life have kept me from this blog and the blogosphere in general.

Part of it is that I reached love letter 100 a few months back and realised that the original point of this blog was to journal a long distance relationship that is no longer long distance.

If Runaway American Dream was an interesting read, it was because the emotions which fuelled the writing were so raw and urgent. Those of you who have been with me from those very different early days may recall just how charged my writing could get back then.

Truthfully, these posts were my coping mechanism, my way of bearing the unbearable waits between those oh so short visits.

All that is done with now. Jersey girl and I have been married for over a year and I have been resident in this fine country of her’s for almost two. Were I to simply write about our relationship as it is now, I fear that the sheer domesticity would sink the blog faster than a torpedo.

I mean, what is the point of just chronicling a perfectly normal life? I’m as happy with my love as I ever expected to be in my most fervent yearnings but I must confess that this actually doesn’t make for very interesting reading.

True, this blog was always a little more than a simple journal of an unusual love. There were the music slanted posts, the poetry attempts, local history, and other writings but the main reason it existed at all was my need to externalise all the emotions that swirled around this amour de longue distance  I found myself in.

Blogging served that need quite well but that was then and this is a very different now.

This begins to sound like a farewell note but I hope that isn’t the case. I’ve been thinking about where to take all this from here and am still considering options.

Feel free to make suggestions if there has been some aspect of the blog you have particularly enjoyed over the years. I’m leaning towards making more of the historical posts I’ve occasionally delved into but if there’s something else you’d like to see, just let me know.

I’ve really enjoyed my blogging journey thus far and have no real desire to give it up. All of you helped me get through some pretty difficult times and, though we don’t really know each other all that well, you are all distinct and unique cohabiters of this Runaway American Dream to me.

Some of you I count as friends, others whom I have really enjoyed interacting with, I consider some of the most informative, entertaining, and inspirational folk I’ve ever encountered.

I’m not sure where this goes from here but I hope you’ll all come along for the ride.

Thanks for being here.

 

The weight

 

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Shiny

 

 

The oldest thing

Inside my head

Is a small

Black

Stone

A pebble really

Shiny

And so very black

It is made of all the things that happened to me

Before

Long before I even knew me

All the pain

Sorrow

Confusion

Compressed into one

Shiny

Black

Stone

I carry it everywhere

Just a pebble really

And I don’t understand

Why I’m so damned

Tired

All

The

Time.

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2018

Warning Bell

 

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Misplacements

 

Something stolen

Not difficult to define

Falling symbols

Clanging like a warning bell

An ending locked

Into a darker beginning

 

We tipped over that day

Falling into each other

Eyes blinded

By pyroclastic clouds

Of displaced faith

 

Everything changed

Nothing was spared

Concrete narratives shattered

Became dust

Now we breathe them in

Until we choke

 

Shaken to our very foundations

We stand on our resolve

In an emptier space than we remember

Always wary

Always watched

Something stolen, never to return.

 

 

©2018

A forest

 

 

Respite

 

In the cool deep woods

I meander

Finding spaces

Places where the sun

Creeps in

Inward I ramble

Into the dappled green forest of my mind

Lost in the hum of cicadas

And the trill of unknown birds

Too well hid

The river wanders by me

And I by it

But we can meet only

In the places trees and vines abhor

 

The heron knows

The shadows are best for hunting

Still, she flies eagerly towards the sun.

 

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Words and images are my own.

 

©2018