I was made for Afternoons

long drives through country through early morning traffic through fields of golden canola n cooling pine plantations we stick to the back paths keeping away from the tourist caravans n out of the way of horses children and balloons of any descriptions . . . so yesterday the music today the books robin hobb - the assassin series loving these new books ( i am on the second instalment) self contained worlds give me much pleasure can’t recall if I wrote about this earlier tolkien, narnia, earthsea all etched in my memory as an 11 or 12 year old i lived in these places they became part of me their values often became mine i loved the nobility honesty silence was taught as a skill to be loved that a man only does what needs to be done that a life poured out for others in taking responsibility is a life of value sometimes I feel like these values are not of this time like i am, like these writers against the flow against the tide standing outside what is currently valued n feeling alone

warm day n sun so the holy days of spring begin children can play outside we clean and tidy preparing for a trip on the morrow through the countryside heading south through hills to the coast n the wife's forefathers traditionally this time of year fills me with a morbid dread i see the future the next few months n overwhelming fear fills me end of year celebrations become a chore attending to people wearying and dreary i seek refuge and discipline merely to survive it is hard to welcome that which slays your sense of self of equilibrium of a universe which makes sense at least now i am relieved of the need to write endless reports on the lives of children now i can write endlessly about myself . . .  as i write this i listen to youtube crosby stills nash n young i love this music on saturday night we have a killer show in oz called rockwiz anyway two local fairly b grade musos sang neil young's comes a time and so the obsession awakens again discovering new artists going deepe

i saw the city encased in mist n rain n dark a tomb of fantasy a womb of silence it made me silent within silenced my monkey brain stilled the raging river i stared for a moment n then the torrents of the day continued people n things n events n conversations but here in the wild west rain poured  wind howled clouds gathered in their fields children donned their wellies n jumped in puddles teachers cursed and reached for movies some snuggled deeper into their blankets  n slept the day away others ignored the ambience of the day raised their brollies n continued their way affected but unhindered lonely poets saw lovers tears bright eyed youngsters saw endless tales the ill saw their reflection the housebound saw yet another reason  to stay hidden the ancient thought of trenches fisherman stared out at a stormy seas not willing to give up their secrets today artists writers musicians n painter found inspiration your humble correspondent dreamt of lands now lost kings n queens n suits of

decisions come decisions go moons waxing and waning shooting stars lost in galaxies unknown slipping silently  into black holes of my own making but if we could but see beyond things temporal how our word here a thought there plays out on a cosmic scale anothers loss our gain anothers hope our fear anothers dream our reality their darkness our light their words our curse their freedom our captivity but it will not do to dwell on such things here for light can be dimmed by a mere spoken word hearts broken  by a look your history told to another in the touch of your hand traverse this place lightly and be of good cheer for the future is not yet beheld