Saturday, January 23, 2010


i drag the morning crust from my eye and search the sites for entertainment. the morning is cold and sunny outside, it feels fresh and hard. Coffee sits waiting attention while I drink my first glass of water. I'm making a effort to drink as much water as possible during the day, I've never quite drank enough and so now, I think I'll flush out my kidneys and give my body that its probably been wanting for a very long time.
Today is a strange day, Saturday, the weekend. The first of two days away from work, and an opportunity to relax. It feels odd though, as though I should be doing something, as if sitting here typing is the wrong thing to do. There are so many tasks that sit untouched on my mental list, but I have no drive to do them. Saturday, the day of doing things that don't revolve around work - so what do I want to do? That is where I am at a bit of a loss. I'm feeling detached from myself, like waking from a heavy night of drinking and spending the day in a haze of indecision.
What I should do is have breakfast, workout and have a hot shower, get blood pumping through me and wait for awakening and revival to kick in. I should have been in England today, but I'm still here. For some reason I feel like I shouldn't be here, that my presence is tension. At least its sunny outside and I am warm inside.

With one foot on the land
And another wet in the sea
Head upturned in air
to breathe life into me

I see with eyes open
The man that I've become
I dream with eyes closed
About the things that I have done

I walk along the sandy shore
Among the shells and stone
Head downturned to see them clear
Washed clean and all alone

I head back in across the land
To find a better way
Over hills and into marsh
This trip must end today.

Tomorrow brings a fresh north wind
To blow away the doubt
I smile and dance and clap
My hands and open my mouth to shout

I see with eyes open
The man that I've become
I dream with eyes closed
About the things that I have done

Monday, January 18, 2010


room warmed by low watt bulbs,
candles too, upon the floor
as shadows play.
calm creation of vision,
moments of anticipation that
build yearning.
light obscured, then illumination
as form fills the room,
naked flesh exposed.
soft skin tanned and revealing
intimate clefts, erotic motion
while footstep pad to bed.
the crush of feathers
lying side by side,
fingers stroking goosebumps.
caress of tips. eyes closed,
direction driven by quiet moans,
the tuft tugged gently.
smooth limbs held by strong hands
pulled with resistance to
welcome the ritual.
beats build tempo. songs
sing from under bed covers and
time passes in oblivion.
moist with residue, with fond
perspiration. heat resonates
underneath and sticky
a bestowal and whispered affection
to sleeping beauty as
dream of tomorrow begin again.

Friday, January 15, 2010


Prose and stimulation are lacking, head is hazy, nose running, body aches as if I were old. I've wanted to work out, to give my muscles a reason to moan, but each time I start, I'm able to do less than half of what is normal, and then collapse, breathless and more sore than before. I look forward to the cold passing, to waking up and feeling awake instead of the perpetual sense of sleep that I feel right now. Cures and remedies are but momentary comfort, a few hours in which I can breathe through my nose, mind feels like it can accomplish the meagre tasks that I have set for the day. And then the feeling passes and I drift back into the bubble, ears muffled and wanting to pop like on an airplane. Bring on the weekend. Perhaps the night will pass without restless motion, dry throat and clammy skin.

I need to stop smoking, my colour becoming ashen grey, eyes dragged down by heavy black bags. My patches lie unopened, waiting to be attached to skin, to gently allow the drug to permeate into my body, supply the addiction while I avoid the habit. I've tried once, but did not give it enough time, took it for granted that I would not desire the comfort of a burning cigarette. Time to give it another go, to put my will into it. To motivate myself with the thought of relish that body will feel more alive, that the poison in my veins will slowly seep out my pores and revival will begin.

Today the work is hard, simple thoughts require effort to concentrate mind and eyes blink to clear the blur. Roll on finishing time. I look forward to sleep as though I have not slept in days. I can't wait to feel healthy again.

Friday, January 1, 2010

York Redoubt, Halifax, NS

We arrived at the fort and parked the car. The journey there had been a good one, escaping from the house and heading out of the city along a winding road that took us passed Purcells Cove, lakes, cottages and schools. The air had a crispness to it that hinted at snow and every now and then, a couple of flakes would fall lazily from the sky above. There seemed to be a lot of walkers out today, mostly older couples who were enjoying the first day of the year, people out with their dogs, letting them burn some energy. We locked the car, and walked through the entrance to York Redoubt. The fort had been in use since the 1800s and there were plenty of buildings and earthworks to see. Inside the fort felt like being in a crater. The high banked walls contrasting with the depression that we found ourselves in. Five large cannons stood silently pointing to the sea, cannons that last made themselves heard in a long distant time. We climbed up the steps of one of the banks to absorb the view of the ocean that lay far beneath. It didn't really feel as though we were so high up, but the difference was clear as soon as we looked over the edge. We walked along, talking about the way of life, the kind of people that lived and worked there, what they valued, what they did. Both of us were born in the wrong era. The Victorian days would have suited us more. I think that there would have been a far greater sense of fulfillment, life satisfaction and that instead of taking things for granted, that as life would be harder, it would also feel more like it had been earned. Imagine how the food would have tasted for a soldier about to leave for war, not knowing if he would see his family again. Imagine his children, his wife, working hard and being thankful for every simple meal that they had together. Hands knarled and calloused with labour. Coming home from a hard day and falling asleep in a simple bed with no furnace, no internet, no television. A life more simple, harder, but satisfying. Our tour of the fort itself was nearing its end, we looked hungrily at the ocean below, and the winding near invisible trail leading down to it. The going was steep and snow had begun to fall, covering the rocks and earth with traces of white. Both of us nearly slipped, the footholds icy and occasionally difficult to identify. Cautiously we descended down towards a track which we could see below us, holding on to tree branches, and stepping slowly with bent knees as we neared the road. There were pockets of water and ice that were forming beautiful patterns as the water seeped down the path we were taking, sculptured into the earth itself and enveloping small twigs, lichen and leaves into its frozen smooth surface. We got to the road, and climbed over a small barrier which separated the ridge from the road. Once on the road, we looked in both directions, left, then right, to see what would interest us, and attract us to see more. We have that in common, a sense of adventure, an interest in discovery, in finding new places. Left and right seemed to offer little, we looked down, toward the ocean, and were drawn to it. We found another little used trail that lay hidden among the trees and followed it. The snow was beginning to fall faster, a flurry which had the potential to become something more. Leaves covered the ground here, leaves that were fast being obscured with snow. We nearly slipped a couple of times as we continued downwards, the slope steep and stimulating. About fifteen metres below us, we could see a gravel pathed trail and we headed towards it eagerly. Pushing back branches and driving through thorned bushes we reached the trail. It was beautifully quiet, a light breeze swept through on occasion and the snow would drift up from where it had settled. Water could be heard trickling down the slope, forming ice walls and frozen streams, icicles that stretched far enough to touch the earth itself. It was beautiful, a perfect mix of transparent, translucent and opaque. Underneath my feet, through the ice, I could see the water running by, its movement fast and unimpeded. The trail was very pretty and I would love to visit and explore it further another day. Today, we were drawn to the sea, and so crossing the gravel path, we found a set of worn, moss covered steps leading into the trees. We followed the steps downwards, and after a few metres, it opened out into a view of the rocky beach, and a garrison fort at the waters edge. The landscape was rugged, hard and unwelcoming. To get down to the waters edge, we clambered across large rocks, down slippery earth and underneath the boughs of age old trees. Our descent from the fort of York Redoubt, high above us and out of view, had been an adventure in itself. Now we were by the ocean, a place both of us feel a great affinity with, we looked in different directions, out to see, along the coast line, into the dark water, at our feet and between the rocks.

Tiny little shells lay interspersed on the ground, shells white and light in colour, they had been washed lovingly by the currents and sat shining and smooth waiting for someone to pick them up and take them home. We began putting them in pockets to take back with us, going in separate directions along the rocky coast. We took photographs, pictures of each other, of the landscape, the water and the way we had come. It was a wonderful day. Her company was so treasured, and such warmth filled me as I watched her climbing over large rocks and then looking out to the unknown of the ocean. Her hood up and the fur ring and purple scarf near obscuring her face. Only her eyes and nose were visible. She was beautiful. I turned, and with a feeling of child like curiosity had an urge to clamber up the side of a large boulder, covered in ice and with water trickling down its edges. Finding niches in which to grip my gloved fingers, and then searching for hard, dry parts of the rock, I made my way upwards, another ice wall greeted me and I ran my hands along its smooth surface. I continued upwards, a stream was flowing and the water was covering the dark blackness of the rock. A fallen tree lay across it and I made my way too it, the objective of the quest was to lean against it, one foot either side of the trickle of water, and then look out to the ocean. It felt sheltered up there, as if no snow was falling upon me, and no breeze moved the air. I liked it there, looking out to the Atlantic and letting mind drift with the waves that gentled cast their white horses against the shore. Our time there was nearly over, and we checked the time. We had to be back soon and so silently said our farewells to the ocean, and began the ascent back up to the fort. She led the way, picking a path between rocks, between trees, and at steady pace heading back to where we parked the car. Before we reached the gravel trail, a concrete structure appeared from within the trees, overgrown and dark, it encouraged us to step inside. One day, perhaps long ago, this building would have performed a duty, a function, people would have worked there, perhaps slept there, ate there, and talked there. It seemed strangely sad to see the building so changed, the floor was green with moss, the windows empty. It felt like a shell, as if the life had been sucked from it and the walls were all that remained. We stepped inside. A set of steps lead upwards, but the ceiling blocked progress, as if at one time there had been a second storey. The walls had occasional graffiti on them, but didn't have the dark slogans often seen inside abandoned structures. Perhaps few people knew of it, few people had been inside it. After taking a couple of photos, we passed around the walls of the building and back on to the trail. We looked around to search for the best way back up to the fort. She turned right and spotted a trail leading up and back in the direction of York Redoubt. The incline was good, our lungs began to work as we set a rhythm, a pace as feet stepped between the roots of the trees and the occasional frozen puddle. I could feel the muscles in my legs, tense and relax as we progressed. I was really enjoying it, being outdoors, the walking, the new sites, the feeling of being alive in the world. It was the first day of January, 2010, and the world felt quiet, subdued, but wonderfully real. We arrived back at the fort, the grass covered with snow, the car white, windows obscured. We opened the doors, got inside, our coats moist with snow. The return journey to our house was slower, the weather worsened and the snow came with greater intensity. As we came closer to the city of Halifax, my mind drifted, I imagined being back there in the summer, with warm air and cloudless skies, sitting with her under the trees, night starting to fall, a sleeping bag, good books, lying in each others arms, falling asleep to the gentle lap of the waves. Already, writing this I am longing to be back there with her, to share those moments and feel alive.