typing never helps
i’ve googled, looked into the forums. you can’t unsubscribe people from a public wordpress blog. it’s their choice. if they want to get an email every time you have a stupid thought, they can. nothing you can do about it.
in a way it makes sense, right. if you don’t want someone acessing your life well wow: try not putting it all online.
but in another way i don’t understand. i really don’t. none of it.
so the lines of questions. not interested. no more answers. i’m not with her anymore. it’s been forever. no thoughts on her sexuality. no feelings about it. no thoughts on the new girl. no opinions. nothing. sketches & half-formed songs are all i need:
i’m not set up here to add drums. even if i was i probably wouldn’t. or shouldn’t. i’m not too good at recognising my own limitations. drums is possibly a limit.
not sure where i’m going with this stuff. maybe i need to get all of the 2015 melodies out, done, rendered. then i can look at the instrument again, think about what i want to do with it into the future.
my friend rob is an amazing musician & because of this i once asked him for some tips on how to play the harmonica. so he said, ‘just suck & blow, man. just suck & blow.’
i love him & that anecdote but i still feel like i’m possibly missing something. anyhoo..
apologies for: the audible air-conditioner hum. i can’t turn it off today. also: the inexpertly played melodica. it’s still a pretty little instrument, despite being jammed in my kids’ closet for years.
it’s a rough effort. but then isn’t everything.
late 2014 i worked briefly with a group of local artists on a project – they were all challenged to make artworks responding to the murrumbidgee river. one member of the group was an aboriginal artist, david williams. we had an initial group meeting where i intended to get everyone talking about the project, discussing things, bouncing ideas off each other. it wasn’t overly productive but was friendly & fun. it was kind of brief – nobody was too expansive. i think it was my fault a little. i needed to guide the process. one thing i remember david saying about the river stuck with me tho. he’s not an overly talkative guy, but he said what the river meant to him was simple: it meant he was home. something clicks within him when he gets down on to the redgum floodplains. his body relaxes; he knows he’s there. home.
i’ve grown up along the murrumbidgee too & i think it’s the same for me, a bit. now that i live here in narrandera, in a sense, i’m back home. being able to get in the water every day clears my head. observing the colours as they change with the seasons has become one of my main interests. idk. maybe it is just water. but it has a pull.
my ex told me this weekend she’s seeing someone else. i guess i’m still processing that. it means this someone, this other person has now been introduced to my kids. i have to be ok with this. & i will be.
i haven’t been ‘seeing’ anyone. i don’t know if i can. i find it hard to connect with people. it takes forever to find one person. when it happens it’s so rare, so surprising, & usually indefinable. it makes me oscillate weirdly / i don’t know myself. yes i did want that. i miss you but i can submerge that in the waters of the marambidyabilla.
can’t look away squinting & half-hearted
my athleticism failed/flailing your rigour it’s
every other person with comfort to offer
the world spins suffuse with growth with decay
with uncertainty & me i’m on foot a tracker
ranging the ideas or images leading forward
or backward to collaborative solace then
i scuff the loamy sand with my elbow soil stalker
much: working on very intent acts of deletion
where the idea of mood is key the only reward
is in you in thinking of yourself your priorities &
maybe the cold air rattling past flyscreen tonight
inflating & expanding all staggered sentiment
the gusts just oscillations of unlocked accounts
i broke a branch & patted out a stubborn seat
of debris thinking of these lines yet to be written
now previously read you’re signposted such
long highway miles distant with the clouds
burgeoning purple overhead gilding me
as a pastoral loser (mitch pops a wheelie
near the riverbank) back of the page this
sketchy imprint it’s everyone ever: bored &
poorly attempting stuff / the cicada howl
dies down & it’s the land of cousins glimpse
the fun under that snaking redgum dad caught
a turtle but we’re still just the lonely striations
of bark, rendered as peak situation breakers