As summer fleets the heavens have opened. A dank misery has now descended which dampens the spirit. If the constant drip drip and blanket of grey wasn’t bad enough, it will get colder and colder from here on in.

Everything looks the same in the unrelenting rain. Any peace is washed aside by the constant trickle of traffic. Pedestrians run and hide their heads whilst steaming towards their destination. Outdoor human interaction is a luxury in these parts.

Yet its all about context. In warmer climes the rain is welcomed with outstretched arms, cleansing the hot dusty cities of the Mediterranean, invigorating the parched dust bowl of the mid-west.
A shower in the tropics offers a respite in the oppressive humidity. The powerful thunderstorm captures the imagination, a force of nature reminding us of our place within the grand scheme of things.

And so a small part of me feels sorry for the rain. If rain was personified and capable of conscious thought then i think he’d feel awkward. Uncomfortable that he is not welcome here with us and feeling guilty for dreaming about the 1001 places he would rather be.

Text Exile

The most depressing part of the rejection attached to dating appears in the ‘test of reality’ which shows me that the potential love interest has ceased to exist. In this ‘the interest’ is neither dead nor far away.

It is I who decides that my construction of the love interest’s image must die. As long as this strange mourning lasts, i will have to undergo two conflicting miseries: that ‘the interest’ continues to exist and to suffer from the fact that ‘the interest’ is dead.

Thus I am wretched over a text message which does not come, reminding myself in the process that this silence is insignificant as I have decided to get over any such concern.

The interest is gone and the phone, whether it vibrates or not, resumes its trivial existence.


XX sits down in front of a blank screen and types these words out on his keyboard. It was. It will never be again.

XX stops typing and gazes out of the window at the tree at the end of the yard. Here and there some leaves still remain on its branches and XX sits deep in thought staring at the leaves.

XX contemplates a leaf and attaches all his remaining hope to it. A gust blows hard and the branch sways to and fro. The wind makes the leaf flutter frantically and XX becomes anxious, because if it should fall then XX’s hope will fall with it.

XX gets up walks to the kitchen to make a coffee. XX then walks back to the empty chair at the desk by the window and sits down. XX lights a cigarette and sips his coffee.


In August I attempted to give up my long-term mistress of many years. This is a quick note to inform anyone interested that i failed miserably. It was too much to let go of her… and her of me.

I was unable to prevent myself from leaving her slender figure alone, nevermind go without how she sets my mind at ease. It is a physical and emotional lure I could not resist. She is addictive like crack.

So yet again I find myself in danger of becoming a social pariah. People see me with her on the street and I catch them casting disdainful looks… some out of repulsion, others out of jealousy.

Occasionally when friends are over we sometime nip out the back for a ‘cheeky quickie’. I return indoors with her smell still on my fingers and a smile on my face as I’m gently reminded of the bikesheds at school…


When the dead weep they are beginning to recover” said the Crow solemnly
I am sorry to contradict my famous friend and colleague” said the Owl, “but as far as i’m concerned when the dead weep, it means that they do not want to die…” Collodi – The Adventures of Pinocchio

A few hundred metres up the road from my house is a large well kept Victorian graveyard. In these grounds lay my Father who died in a car accident at the age of 24.
Having never visited the site, it was with a cruel irony that I moved into a house which was only a 5 minute walk away from his current resting place. Continue reading


In the midsts of any painful break up we often tend to say things we don’t mean. In some inconsolable lamentation we often drawn to write something that in reflection makes us cringe.

However I did find something that made me feel different. It reminded me about being human and in love, feeling vulnerable hurt and alive in a foreign city.

Upon rereading this for the first I felt like the woman in the story… Continue reading


A Buddhist Koan says: “The master holds the disciple’s head underwater for a long, long time; gradually the bubbles become fewer; at the last moment, the master pulls the disciple out and revives him: when you have craved truth as you crave air, then you will know what truth is.”

An absence of another holds my head underwater and gradually I begin to drown as my air supply gives out. It is this asphyxia which reconsitutes my ‘truth’ and I prepare what in love is intractrable.

I have wakened out of this forgetfulness with a sigh. The body expresses the absence of emotion in this way: to sigh, to sigh for the bodily presence.