clinging to the wreckage

Recently I decided to go and rummage through the iTunes store for Slayer albums. I have a few, including the classics, but not all. I discovered that they released an album in 2009, before their guitarist died, called World Painted Blood , an interesting title, so I purchased it. It is very good. And appropriate in a world painted blood red by politicians and greed.  At 06:30 I walk to the office. The temperature is already 28 degrees Celsius and I start to wonder if I should leave this city, this State. However, I feel connected to, almost enslaved by, the poor homeless cat that waits for me each morning on the ledge outside the door of the building. She refuses to come inside, but I can tell that she enjoys this process of waiting, seeing me appear with a bowl of food, waiting for me to place it on the floor nearby, leaping down and eating before retiring to the bed of her favourite truck where she remains until the temperature is too high and she retreats to cooler areas....

  The soothing fire of a shot of scotch. A delicate memory of a beautiful and passionate past encounter. The recognition of time and change, of things rearranged. And then, sadly, awaking to an end to the ceasefire and the depression that sets in as a result of that. But I just finished reading Bread of Angels by Patti Smith and the image at the end of the 'Bay of Angels’ in Nice, France, made me feel nostalgic. It is a place I have been fortunate enough to visit many times, and the view is spectacular. I have visited with great friends and even a lover and, yet, all this time, I never knew that Patti Smith stayed at the Hotel Suisse and that, before her, James Joyce had also spent time there during a crucial phase of writing Finnegans Wake . Literature is beautiful. The world of books and literary history is a world that I am grateful to have discovered a passion for and, honestly, as I grow older, one of the things that terrifies me most is knowing that, one day, this all comes ...

  Reading a book in the pool as the sun starts to set, ripples of light reflect from the water and hit the page. The scene is beautiful in its flickering tranquillity and yet every book that I read of late is about neglect and death and suffering and sorrow.               I’ve been thinking of the significance of months. For instance, September. I was born in September. I moved from England to Spain in September, I moved from Spain to Cambridge, MA, USA, in September and then I moved to Dallas, Texas in September. I became a US citizen in September and, one year later, my friend, Jill, who attended my citizenship ceremony, died in September. The queen of England died on my birthday in September. Then there is December. Every second December for six years I met women whose names all began with ‘S’ who became my girlfriends. Finally, my mother died in December.             ...

  People live in fear of socialism. I think the word may be too extreme. However, I saw a quote this week that put it into perspective: ‘Socialism is the fire department putting out the fire. Capitalism is the insurance company refusing to pay you.’ This is so true. Nevertheless, the world goes on and life goes on… for now. We finally had something positive occurring in the world – the world cup – and a lot of news was calm and quiet and positive. Then, of course, he who cannot keep quiet, he who cannot stay out of the news, he who believes that everything is about him, made a call to FIFA to ask for a USA’s player suspension be removed and, of course, FIFA agreed and removed the suspension. I do believe that the red card was harsh and should not have been given. However, the president of a country should not be interfering in a sporting event to abuse his position and power. All the positive energy that was being built around the US, the US team, and the world cup has taken a hit ...

  The dreams were wild, and sexual. It’s also very surprising to dream in this manner of ex-colleagues from sixteen or seventeen years ago. There was also one about an ex-girlfriend, although this was more conversational with tremendous suggestion and anticipation. The worst part about dreams is that they often make one want to message someone in the morning… someone one probably shouldn’t message.   Alas, here I am, awake before 6am on a Sunday morning. The day is filled with promise and potential and yet it also guarantees the end of a long weekend. I hear the Doves singing, they are like family. Two of them had lived here for a while, they nested and had young. Sometimes I see the four of them perched on the roof looking down into the pool area, their kingdom, or even on the fence beside the pool as I swim as if they are enjoying the moment of company.   Of late, I have been plagued, again, with thoughts of my French muse, the lady who stole my heart thirteen years ago...

  The cat lies flat on top of the forlorn jeep in the car park… awaiting my arrival (at least, this is what I believe) with a bowl of food that I place beside the jeep. The cat gazes into my eyes for a moment or two and then elegantly descends from the jeep to the bowl and begins to eat. Once satisfied, she strolls across the car park and leaps up into the comfort of her favourite truck where she will sleep until the heat drives her to a cooler place. My duties done, I sip a cup of coffee and read before setting out for a short jog. The heat launches an assault, and I am grateful to be jogging on a heavily shaded path. Endurance is not there yet, I only survive twenty minutes before heading directly to the pool where I swim for ten minutes before showering and feeling entitled to laze a while and write and read and listen to music… all of the things that ground me, all of the things that make life seem worth living.            ...