My Father

My father says
he's getting old
And so he is,
and so am I.
Here, just behind;
passing through
that same space and time.
My hand, no longer anchored
in the pocket of your jeans -
Yet we still
face the one direction,
and move the only speed.

Night Sets

Night sets

and I imagine

it is death.

I pretend that I am ready,

I practice letting go.

Day breaks

and finds me blinking.

Not within a new day

but as a new being.

Memories and dreams

mingle like past lives

and I wonder

About the new parts of myself

Yet to be discovered.

Too Brief, Too Varied

Sometimes
I do things one way
and sometimes
another.

In this way
I can be
quite frustrating.

Is a steadfast refusal
of the usual,
the opposite of stubbornness
or its equal?

Put simply,
life is too brief
and too varied

To always behave
a certain way.

Each an Island

I have never been outside this country,
but I have traveled outside myself
and into the lives of others.

I have experienced that which is strictly foreign.

I have borrowed freely, and necessarily;
for though I will always be an island,
such glimpses provide the light by which
I build out the shoreline of my mind.

Join me in the field

Join me in the field
where silence sits.

Where the wind sifts
browning thoughts
like leaves.

Give them up
to the cold air felt
in your face, in your fingers;

some caught in the grass,
some carried on forever.

Idea for a Film in Black and White

We are introduced to a shy young man, quiet and introspective. We are informed early on of his fascination with the lives of strangers, as shown through his compulsive need to study people in various places throughout his daily routine. He is most comfortable when anonymous and hidden. When recognized he seems caught off guard, tense, afraid. Through unclear circumstances, he begins to realize an unusual ability: when he does not wish to be seen, he becomes invisible to others. Upon realizing this power, he exploits it. He gives in to his obsession in increasingly unsettling ways. As his insatiable desire grows, he forgoes food and sleep. He stays always invisible, and yet his fear of being seen or discovered intensifies. He behaves like a fugitive on the run, although no one is chasing him. This ability to come closer than ever before distances him like never before. Malnourished and sleep-deprived, he collapses and we experience his dream. In it, he wakes up in his bed and believes he has been dreaming. Overcome with relief, he attempts to communicate with the first few people he sees. They ignore him. He is unable to see his reflection. He shouts desperately but cannot be heard. It is as if he no longer exists. The dream devolves into horror. He awakes in an alley, dirty and famished. He dances hysterically with the first person he finds and washes himself in a public fountain, temporarily unaware of the disapproving crowd. As the moment passes his self-awareness returns. He remembers his social anxiety. Embarrassed, he slips away and returns home. He knows how to give up his power and does so. That evening, he tries to keep his head down as he walks through the city. Experiencing brief encounters, he tries to be respectful and does not look at passersby. But his curiosity is still there. Afraid of the temptation to watch unsuspecting strangers, he runs into a nearby theater. There, anonymous in the dark room, our protagonist finds peace. His wide eyes glow like moons by the light of the screen. A strange smile blooms underneath.

A Funeral

It seemed early for a funeral, but one could assume any number of satisfactory reasons.

For the evening's privileged invitees, polite assumptions would have to do.

The dim ballroom glowed with countless kind, yellow orbs. The guests, in formal dress, greeted one another warmly and eventually gravitated toward their seats. When the second to last space had been filled, the quartet in the corner abruptly ceased.

An elderly gentleman entered in silence; all eyes followed as he made his way to the center of the first row. One by one the guests took to the stage: old friends and nemeses, colleagues and cousins, his children and their children. One by one they shared whatever it was they had come to say. Grievances were aired and memories recollected. Some spoke of shared moments hitherto unmentioned. They discussed what their time together had meant to them; deliberated how he was to be remembered.

After much speculation and mostly generous words, the silent host took the stage. He was polite. He kept it short: said how grateful he was, that this was the fullest and final day of his life, that he knew they would all get on just fine without him. He studied the room for some time.

Then it was time for drinks and dancing. The chairs were stacked and music played. The longer the evening lasted the slower it grew. Everyone wanted one last photo. They all had their final piece to say. Looking across the room, family members wondered how much life might pass before they gathered again. And, then they thought, for whom?

At last the old man found himself next to the bar, holding a glass he couldn't bear to drink and that he knew he could not set down. He was tired. Even to stand was a terrible burden. He realized now that this moment had been put off for far too long. The storyteller in him always had to know what was going to happen next, but his eyes would not stay open any longer. This was the end, at least for him. His story.

He laid in a bed prepared on the far side of the room. The guests circled round; smiled, kissed, and waved goodbye. There were no words. He squeezed their hands and closed his eyes.

Another moment and the crowd had dispersed. It had been a lovely party. Some left teary-eyed, others had cried; but it had also become quite late. There were coats and bags to be gathered, drinks to shrug off, kids to be carted home and shuffled to bed. A few of the guests even had to be up for work early the next morning.

In My Own Image

I made God
in my own image;
Dressed in hand-
me-down convictions.
Between the shoulders
hung a mirror -
That held each thought,
each contradiction;
And I felt
I held the truth
in my hand.

I made God
in my own image -
But he shared my faults
and prejudices;
Validated my perspective,
all others, rejected -
And justified the condemnation
of those I did not wish
To understand.

I did this
without thought or mal-intention -
And now I'm left with the suspicion
it may be something
We all do.

Palimpsest

Having scraped, washed, and penned myself anew

of this moment I require nothing further -

And, in any case,

tomorrow will be coming soon.

Mirrorworld

A narrow breeze works its way through the leaves in the trees. Little white clouds coast and cause the afternoon brightness to dampen from time to time; their shadows drift silently over the ground as the world slowly spins. From the man-made shade of a second-story balcony I am lulled by the languid parade.

A modest lunch sits on the table, half-eaten. The other ten-odd tables are spaced-out haphazardly, their chairs unencumbered; the visible world from this spot and at this instant lay uninhabited. I, alone with the moment, begin to feel that it is my own.

The roof-line bows out from behind me in a wide-angled curve; the wall of glass that lines the patio reflects in panorama the world that lies before. I glance to my left and note the clarity of the image, an inverse courtyard running out alongside the building in a graceful arc. At first what appears as a mirror image begins to feel separate somehow. Even my own reflection bears a slight suspicion - I can't help but regard it as a person of uncanny resemblance rather than my own hollow echo. I close my eyes to dispel the perturbing sensation and a floating feeling seems to settle. I breathe out, then in, with a firm grip on the arms of my chair. I remain, for a moment, with my eyes closed. All is calm and silent, all seems well.

I open my eyes and find myself facing the other direction. My view is the same, but now I must look to the right to see my reflection in the window. It does not return my gaze. What now seems a former-self sits motionless beyond the glass, eyes open yet fixed, evidently lost in the depth of a thought. Although struck by the strangeness I remain curiously calm. This mirror-image of the world is wholly silent and still. I inhale and the air has no smell; the chair and table are solid but my sense of touch is numbed somehow. "Approach the railing and look to the east," I think to myself, and this strange twin of a body follows suit.  Apart from my own orientation the scene remains exactly as before: an empty courtyard, green with young trees and lined by buildings of uniformly speckled brick. The clouds continue to coast; their shadows drift. Again I turn, to catch my reflection staring...but he sits as before, unaware that a part of himself is missing, entirely unaware that he is being watched from a short distance.

Worn-leather Armchairs

Tonight, when the hour is late and the house quiet...
once you've been tucked in, each prayer gently tended to,
your god and I will sit in worn-leather armchairs and talk
about whatever is on our minds.

"Sometimes I still think you're right..." he often begins,
as he meets my gaze with weary eyes.
"...that somehow everything is going to be fine."
Then neither of us will speak for a time.

"You know..." in response to some unknown spark in his mind,
"...the age of the world escapes me.
My memory is just not what it used to be."

And when, after a time, eyes close and body slumps,
I will rise, almost an old man myself, to blanket both god and chair.


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I let you in
when I was young.
You listened, you were with me
when no one else was.

Now that I'm older
I wheel you around.
   Feed you by spoon.
      Listen to your fears
of the end.

But you won't die for some time yet
because,
omniscient or not,

We are one.

Pilgrimage

When the boundaries of space and time were first opened up, the old world believers were the first to go. Into their vast ships they packed their entombed saints, encased in stone, their treasures and scrolls and relics of the past. The body, the people... the very life-blood of the church, flowed out and into these steel vessels by the thousands.

They called it a pilgrimage. The great migration. They had no destination. The voyage was to be led by faith through the valley, until fate landed the holy caravan on their new earth upon some far shore. Each new days' coordinates were delegated by the interpretation of dreams by their holiest men.

Of all bodies of faith in all the earth, this was the longest standing and largest in number, but long had it been since they had any investment in it. For generations they lived without any thought of this world. Their hearts and minds dwelt only on some other life. They claimed this world was meant to die. That there was no saving it. That it was not worth the mourning.

And so their day had finally come, after a century of planning the exodus was set. With a final call for the unsaved peoples of earth to repent to a god they had long forgotten, the towering arks vanished one after another after another.

And the lost peoples of earth were left to bring into salvation the broken pieces of their dying planet as best they could.

Aeron Chases the Sun

Aeron was born into a very old tribe. Long ago, his ancestors constructed great towers like cliffs to live within, where they were protected from the elements and able to live in comfort and leisure. Over time they became used to the darkness of their caves, and favored it. Even the beams of the sun could not penetrate the towers' shadows. Each morning before sun-up they slept, and for many hours. They did not wake until the sun had dipped beneath the horizon once again. At night they moved about by dim, fabricated light, and dreamt in the half-light that they would live forever.

Now Aeron was no longer a boy, and not yet a man, when there arose a restlessness within him that kept him from sleep. He left his cave, looked up and saw the tips of the towers bathed in early morning light. Determined to look upon its source, Aeron ran to meet the Sun outside the city where it rose. From up on a ridge he saw the world bathed in gold for the first time. He stood before the brilliance of the Sun, and it was painful to him. The rays of light pierced him like a thousand arrows and he had no choice but to retreat down into the valley of his people.

Aeron hid amongst the silent towers, nursing his wounds and thinking only of what he had seen. While the city slept, the Sun crept overhead, its power increasing throughout the day. Only with nightfall fast approaching was his courage regained. Again he ventured forth silently, as a hunter tracks his prey. This time he found the half-sun sinking, it's light quickly fading from the sky. As he stared he saw himself in the Sun, and felt that he too, was slowly sinking beneath the earth. With this feeling came such sorrow that he could not bear to watch any longer. Aeron turned, and in turning, saw for the first time his Spirit, spread out on the ground before him. He ran and his spirit ran ahead, with a stride that always reached just farther than his own. It led him back to the city that evening, and from then on he felt it, even at night, stretched out in front of him, leading him on, yearning for the life which comes with every passing moment.

But from the moment the light pierced him, Aeron was forever changed, for the setting Sun had displayed to him his fate. He remained in the town the rest of his days, telling all who would listen of the Sun and its arrows, of the Spirit that it awakens and the death that it brings.