• Happenings

    Diamonds in the rough

    Wind-up toy

    A working week like pulled taffy… focus and functionality progressively drawn out, twisted and distorted. The colours and shapes, though still there, now some filamentous vagueness. Only there at that Friday evening terminus can one attempt to gather the unspooled self and make a pile from which, possibilities for the following days can be considered. Outside the atmosphere is seething… the wind inciting unrest.

    At this point, some of us smile knowingly at the simplicity of what would seem the most appropriate, even rational, response. Rebirth yourself into the weekend at full speed to meet a berzerking sea, itself thrashing with disconsolate fury into the faces of some sullen West-coast headlands.

    Wild West collage 3

    The car’s thermometer bottomed out finally at -0.5 degrees. Amidst another squall, walloping gusts makes us shudder sideways again over the median strip. No need to start so early but there’s little solace; the dour weather has brooded the gloom of the past dark hours onward into the mid-morning. On first inspection, the tide seems to be shirking its responsibilities and the swell plays coy, reclusive ’till tickled deep down where it wants before stirring.

    Wild West collage 2

    But eventually it comes and we disrobe.

    Despite the low-digit degrees making the sleety rain prick like pins, the appropriate accoutrements are wrestled on with fetishistic zeal of the masochist. The wind whips savagely at our boards, shrieking its threats to tear them from our clawed fingers and obliterate them down the long boulder-strewn point. Falling finally, bodily exhausted into the sea, the foam presses hard at the chest and the ordeal of paddling out into the gale begins for the first of many, many repetitions.

    Wild West collage 1

    Sixty-something kilometer-an-hour, and then some, winds lift sheets of foam spray on any shift of chop foolish enough to rear too tall from the sea’s surface. Another squall shrieks in and with it, bitter beads of hail blast at the only skin exposed – full facial dermal abrasion. Little respite is possible for without the incessant stroking back into the wraith-like lee of the headland, one would be lost out into the bay and beyond.

    Wind-up toy

    And yet we were the wealthiest creatures alive for our wages were paid in diamonds…

  • Musings

    Hop, skip

    So Far

    Dig deep with those spurs, into the moment, deeper through into the next. Offer neither mercy nor hesitancy. A foot was put firmly down & for thousands of kilometres a pulse of lines with a lifting swiftness pushed a quivering tin-full of heavy sliders, threaded understatements propped with a glory of course markings packed nice, pack tight.


    Whip branches past the window, flit the trunks of raspy vocals, whip wet & heat, whipped for too far gone past breakpoints and return.Evening Glass

    Motion. Lovely.

    An eclectic-aesthetic is the bouncing buoy glimpsed fleetingly on the way down, around & up to back down again. Urges the sloth to hunt, beckoning but briefly & only in response to an independent wink of inkling. Great cities & wee villages rose & fell away behind without much of a fresh breath bar one or two mints. No such suckers, check all angles – we have work to do if the level reads true.

    EnvelopedThere’s the ambassador from Donabate along for the ride & with a firm grip, the reins are commandeered through a 5 hour stint to belt headlong into the fall of heavens; great gusts buffet & tease the remnants of rubber on front tyres, tongues flick the cracks for decay & slide in to soak feets & foam. Seats swapped & some fresh eyes are set solid on invisible horizons – we’re fed on a vague motion-toward, some general forward direction at high speed, plaque is ground fine betwixt an aching platoon of once-white molars.Mr. Collins, the Ambassador for Donabate

    Miracles? No miracles. Determination & fear. Lust & promise. Hope &/or oblivion. We made a pass at the continent’s most easterly protrusion. Peace & grace, little steps. For a series of cojoined fleeting fragments of moments, life was that of a phantom limb; rejoicing in the self-acceptance of it’s detachment.

    It made that remaining miles homeward hum, dispersing silently unnoticed in the trailing slipstream.