Thursday, September 12, 2019

A boy's brain at night poised for fight

Dear Finn,

Your brilliant human mind is much older than you are!  It is as old as all human time. It is designed for you still to be cave dweller, ready for action to protect yourself and the whole human species.

A bird starts calling out. But it is night time. Birds are not meant to call out at night time, unless…
Unless there is danger!  A bird at night will call when there is danger or great disturbance!
You are asleep. The bird calls and keep calling. It is worried because there are extreme winds, and those winds even carry a whiff of smoke from fires up North.

You wake, and your clever brilliant body and mind gets ready for action. You wake in a way that is fully energised and ready to fight a danger or run from it. The bird calling has told you of possible danger.
Then your modern brain does a check around and there is nothing in your room to fight. But that energy has to go somewhere.

You yell and yell, and the bird keeps you awake and ready to fight. So you fight your bed, your pillow, tossing and turning and full of that energy which has to go somewhere. It’s angry now, that energy. More yelling.
This is natural. It’s the clever part of your ancient brain. It made your body ready to fight or run. It also wanted to sleep!

As you grow up, the modern part of your brain will get better at really knowing when it’s just a bird outside worried about the strong wind and smell of smoke.  It will get faster at working out what you really need to do.

When you came to me for help, at first the headphones didn’t work.  When I gave you two pillows to block out the sound though, you even got back to sleep.
That was your modern brain working it all out and getting help. Humans are also designed to work together to fix problems and face a danger.

It is OK that your ancient brain woke up raging, you were ready for danger, because birds don’t call out at night for no reason!
Come and get help too, as each time you do this you let your modern brain get really smart as well.

Love, Mum

Thursday, February 28, 2019

Art, Autumn.

Thirty-nine degrees yesterday, then thirty-four at 9pm.  
I swam and floated the mauve line of sea under animal clouds and grapefruit segments of sunset.
Still hot.
I’m sitting with music-man as he frowns his new arrangements, and I’m reading Anais Nin, sucking juice from the words and spitting out pips.
He is stabbing at the song like sex, calling and string-hitting so fast I can’t type in time, and this thing we call a process is  not a process but an attack on our arts; I see a dartboard that we each throw at, blind drunk, faster and faster, soon something will hit and hook and be that big score, the word, the note. But in the meantime, it’s a calling out blindly.
There is an atmospheric pressure, the jostling of seasons colliding; it is it furiously hot for Autumn’s first day, and in a month we’ll all be windscreen wipers batting back water, we will be drenched gardens and rotting leaves.
But today, oh today. The burn of the air, the jostling wind, shoving out Summer for Autumn just as Autumn will rot out to Winter and Winter will lie still even as we sleep cold and dream richly, all of it underground, all of it subliminal, cold and wet silently fecund.
He sings tremulous half-notes that will soon be sustained and pure, I type blindly, as staccato as he sings, blind and blind on our keys, we are frantic exhalations. Breathe, try, breathe, pant then later, slower, softer, when the drift and eddy can happen and thought twining in the leaves and sheaves, a sifting sorting time for the gold, the copper, the veins, the proteins.  But for now, the art as impulsive action, motor skills not enough - not brain to hand, but psyche to air, and the mechanisms we have in our bodies are striving and struggling to hammer it out.
Oh this season of jostle, Autumn the best time always, reading Rilke at 3am, reading prose and thrumming out poetics, and seeing it all as if the scales have been lifted from my eyes:  this season, this love, this music, these words, the art that is here and here we are - humble and hopeless in our straight pure love that wants only to arrow out and cloud-shoot for dreams.

Friday, February 22, 2019

Eros is in the room, eating grapes

Dear love,
I'm busting to see you. Just bursting to see you. I am humming and thrumming to see you.  I want to gobble you down, burp you up as vapour, and then inhale you again. I want to roll you up and smoke you, blow you out in rings then poke my tongue through them. If you were a tree I'd climb you then fell you then make a fire of you and paint myself in your ash to dance a warrior dance. If you were a cloud I'd shoot you with my arrow, catch the rain of you on my tongue, drink you deep, piss your gold, and lap it from my fingers. If you were a rock I'd carve from you a phallus, fuck it all night long then make it a totem to dance around naked. I'm busting to see you, just bursting to see you. I'm humming and thrumming to see you, my tree-cloud-man.
                It’s after five and my long day is winding down. I am hot and sticky with my own sap and my head is reeling with pleasure. I am caught like a fly in amber in this memory of our sex: You begin by kissing and nuzzling my hair, my lips, my ears and tongue. Oh yes, yes, oh breasts, tummy, then the rasp of your tongue on my slit and I’m wet, my hands hard-gripping my thighs. Oh yes, finger me, suck me, your mouth around my lips and clit,  your clever fingers and eager mouth and I’m gone, I’m lost, I’m yours. You stand above me, your hand on your cock and the glint of silver at your neck. Where will you touch me now? Ah, you grasp my thighs and I feel you sink into me, begin to fuck me, rocking slowly into me as you breathe into my hair. I clench, clench, contract and expand, wriggle and clutch and drive you full speed, then squeal out my laughing and pure-burbling pleasure.
                Oh, come again to my house with its halls, and into my lips and skin. Our room so dim with rain and books; Eros is lounging half dressed, and he is eating grapes through his grin.
                 I have picked up my phone five times now, each time with a different thought as to how to grab you, get something from you by way of further relief. I could tell you about the laneway I’ve imagined where you push me against the old tin fence, slide down my body and raise my skirt in a fistful of fabric.  I twine my fingers into trailing jasmine as you drop your head to my vulva, opening me with the force of your mouth until your tongue finds my clit and cradles it in long, slow sucks. Your fingers find me too, first one then two begin their rhythmic curling inside me until I am drenching your hand, sliding down onto your palm and clenching you in shivers, a drumbeat, a pulse. You moan low into my neck and shift a little. A cumquat bursts beneath your boot and we breathe in its citrus scent.
                My love, I am gone on you. I want you for my own. Eros has entered my home and he’s whispering dirty tricks into my ear. I’m going to lock you up in a small plain room until Stockholm’s Syndrome sets in; I believe it takes only three days and starvation…then you’d come to adore even the sound of my keys jangling.  You’d fall to your knees and lick my shiny black boots. I would nourish you with nipples and clit to fill your mouth, nourish you with my dew, my honey, my hands in your curls as you drink deep of me.
                I am desperate even as you nourish me.  I read and re-read our letters with their slow rise of sex, words calling in song finding harmony. At night my head hums with images of you:  you are wrapped up in our words like a prayer shawl, curled within my favourite chair; you stand naked and tall and the words drop round your feet. I rise and prowl my home like a cat, touching my mouth or cheek to little objects you have held, marking them anew.  I am sleepless yet never tired, thirsty yet brimming over.  I am full, buoyant with joy, cloud-headedly high in love.
I'm busting to see you. Just bursting to see you. I am humming and thrumming to see you, lover, my love.