walking dog, genius play list, take away coffee, the lead with a knot in it, Sony buds, iPhone, begin with Warren Zevon (the love songs to his wife on his final album are masterpieces), off lead park, wet grass, toes of Campers dark brown from dew, cross the road, cross the street, other dogs taking owners for walks, up and down, turn and retrace.
finding my way, or not
Advert: wispy sky seeking fleeting slight thoughts
waiting for the what to write knowing, and surely this is urprising, that it will arrive. This is the improbable contradiction in Beckett
thicketed, tossled, twigged mop heads clumped bowing in the tangled coastal bush. Dry small leaved green of these gums.
“No worries darl” says the Greek Australian woman in the fish and chip shop.
the door was only a little ajar and that was all this serrated wind wanted
“There were four Asian’s and no Australian’s bidding.” “How did you know they weren’t Australian?” So went a shitty family afternoon.
prowling stalking gathering clearing cleaning. Blunt vacuum sharp tongue. People are coming.
a rolling grey black fog. It’s over there watching ready to gulp swallow smear and smother if I don’t do the right thing.
sometimes the marriage is a Pushme-Pullyou
there are only so many Rainbow Fairy adventures with Rachel, Kirsty, and the banally bad Jack Frost you can do, in all their mannered Englishness
today these five hours have a vacuous grey dull and indistinct flatness
on the drive three dead cats, one dead ’roo
ms now 8 year old pressing her Pop’s stomach to make burps. Puerile almost scatological grandfather humour.
heavy coal clouds leaden with cold and wet. Not the high dark anger of summer thunder but low flat dense thick smothering the day.
fresh home baked Swedish cinnamon buns, heavy sweetness that makes sense if you’ve sat by the water in your hytte
a day made melancholy by its cascade of nots
video blogging, et al.