The Poet, the poeted and the poetee

One must agree though that grasping at straws is only useful if your mind understands the concept of holding on. Otherwise to clutch at straws is to guarantee not only ones own destruction, but that of straws as well. Maybe this is why straws are wary of humans.

“I met a straw once” Mr x. He didn’t like being called Mr x but sadly, that was his name. He rarely spoke so the rest of the table was sat at attention at the sound of his voice. Even Ms d, who was always chattering off to herself sat silent for a bit.

“I know, it was the oddest thing, the straw must have been an absent minded straw or something. I actually surprised it. It seemed to be looking down at the ground as if something was going to leap right out of the earth.”

“Did it?” Ms d, who was eagerly listening now. Straws, after all, were more a modern myth than a real thing. No one had ever even met anyone who had met anyone who had met a straw. Let alone startled one. I had once had a dream about meeting a straw. Not only any straw – the last straw. Another thing of fable. But it was a dream, and besides, if I met the last straw then which straw did Mr x meet. Or perhaps it was the same straw?

“Of course not. I tipped my hat and went along my way”

“Wait, that’s it?”

“Of course, what business do I have interfering a straw staring at the ground. I hear it went on to break the camel’s back but that was for totally unrelated reasons, and a lot later.”

“I would like to meet a straw, I’d imagine I’d get everything I want, a house, a car, a beach – why if I had a straw I would…” Ms d had left us once more to her own mind.

Still, I couldn’t help but think, do straws drown?

From their slumber

They woke the sleeping giants from their eternal slumber.

The great protectors of the realm, once silenced – stripped of their power, had gone into a thousand years of sleep. And it is during this sleep that they ravaged the land, stripped it of its minerals and its vitamins. Left it barren – unable to give life to the people.

And the people

the people

The people tore their garments and raved in the streets. Drapped themselves in sackcloth and looked to old gods forgotten. And gods, gaining men, gained power. And they used this power to stir controversy in the sleeping protectors dreamed. Filled their slumber with terrors of the night.

In this way, the protectors knew it is was time. Time to come alive. Time to end their sleep. Time for them to, once again, defend that land that was taken from their custody at the end of the great war. Time to take back the minds. Time to take back the hearts. Time to take back the imagination, the freedom, the frames, the language, the peace, the power, the control. Time to give the land back its due, to set spark to the sun that life may grow anew.

Time to bring the future to the present.

Now the ground trembles as the sleeping giants stir. And the people – those that know – sit in silent celebration, for they know it is coming.They have heard the rumble, they have felt the tremors.

And the people

the people wait

in bated breath

as the giants take their place.

Soft Landings

By the time we had begun to take apart the metaphors that we use to keep ourselves up we thought we could fly. Perhaps this, in itself, was a testament to the metaphors – definitions of who we are were always strong enough to adapt to the changing world. But were we?

Robbed of our metaphors we spiraled into a freefall.

We are still falling.


According to newton, acceleration due to gravity is a constant 9.8 metres per second squared.

Even at our most still we are seated on a rock that is travelling through space at 460 metres per second, tethered in place by the sun.

We can barely afford to move faster.


The faster we fall  the closer the ground gets.

But if no one hears the splat – did it happen?


Mood: Monday morning. Coffee station at the office. Outside the window behind you outside calls with yearning. An eagerness that reminds you of last night. Of running barefoot singing your love to the moon. Sigh. Everyday shit.

And with his last breath he whispered, ‘run away, run as far and as fast as you can. Run, run and never look back.’ Then, nothing.

As if he were never there. As if the image of the man, grasping at the air, was nothing but a whisp of a borrowed imagination. Perhaps not borrowed but imposed. As if, if life were nothing but frequencies, a bump had you tuned into the wrong station for a while.


But you distinctly remember his voice. You hear him whisper to you in the evening as you do the dishes. In the moments of silence and still he is there. Sometimes, when you go for long walks at night, you catch a whiff of him in the alleys of town. And you could have sworn there was an image of him in a tunnel under a bankslave graffiti tag.

(run, as far and as fast as you can)

As clear as the faint construction sounds that you have now become accustomed to. Clear enough to exist. But hazy enough to create doubt.

(are you still running?)

Did he die? You remember it as his last breath but modern medicine has shown you that more often than not, death is curable. More a minor convenience than something that actually happens. Except of course when it does. And then we can come out in the competition of grief. Perhaps then, it was best for you to imagine that he was dead because you would like to hold on to the idea of sadness. To use his death to carry sentiment and to use this sentiment to give his words weight. His words, ‘run’ whispered with the distance of a man calling far from the shore, one hand on Katsumi’s shoulder, sailing into the sunset.

So you’re the one that needed him to die. For if it wasn’t his last breath then it could just be another thing that he said. A thing, in the delirious moment of near death. A thing deniable.

(do the dead run? How many countries participate in the Zombie Olympics? If you are dead, what are you afraid of? Run)

But, you know, you know because you know. Because you were there – until you weren’t. Even now, you wait. You wait for a resolution.

But only a whisper remains.
A whisper and a doubt.

The Wander’s Dilemma

But suppose you were given the key to begin a desuggestion of evolution. A dream, a whisper, a love note – blown away in a dustball kicked up by a screeching matatu and caught in the wheels of a passing bodaboda. Would the cycle disrupt its message? Perhaps it would break some sort of spell. Unwinding the careful whisperings of the witch who refused to be burned.

Did rebel witches travel in groups? Or did they hover above cities alone, marking their territory with piss every five meters? I digress.

Suppose you were the one who rescued this note. Which is more dramatic than to say – suppose a paper oddly lodged in the spikes of a parked boda caught your attention. And that at the moment they caught your attention you had time to kill. Which is to say that perhaps you were seated on the curb with half a burger in your hand, waiting. And so you are bored enough to chase after a curiosity as trivial as a paper lodged in the spikes of a parked boda.

Now, just because we’re making this up as we go along, let’s assume that the symbols were in a language that you did not recognize – but bore some form of familiarity. A different form of alphabet, you told yourself.

By this time, of course, the wait is over. Would you put the note in your pocket? Would you notice as the words ceased to become part of the note and part of yourself? Would you be there to catch the words as the formed themselves and began to leave your own mouth? Would you be cognizant enough to realise the silent obsession with the code? The “I’m just keeping it so I read it later.” The “I’m laminating it because I really want to get round to giving it a good read.”

Would you begin to see the whispers drive another? Another? Would the whispers begin to appear? Or would the words have slowly etched their way into your being, shifting just the perfect number of strands in your DNA to present the change.

It’s a simple enough change really.

But whispers know nothing of simplicity. And the problem isn’t in the drop – it’s in the ripples. How one simple, meets another, meets another – and how these simples add on themselves and have impact on things that were not even part of anything to begin with. A long sentence to say that the universe has not yet decided whether it is a form of order or of chaos yet. Either that or we are yet to decide what works best for us. Generally, we agreed that some form of ordered chaos is going on. But now that scientists figured out that things happen different when they are being watched the observable universe feels more like a wierded out game of cat and mouse. Or like the universe has been showing us what it would like us to see.

So even if you eventually noticed the words when one too many slipped. And even if the process of ink becoming skin startled you out of yourself. Even if the note itself revealed itself and its significance to you – how would you be able to know it’s authenticity. After all, the need to understand the universe is steeped in the need to control which, often, is driven by fear. To be afraid, then, is to be driven to find out more. Which makes this a zero sum game, right?

But whispers know nothing of simplicity.

And even when they do they are travelled through too many media to maintain their original truth. And because truth is relative – which is to say that no two memories are alike. And knowing that memory distances itself from pain, then the search for an original truth is like trying to say there is a beginning. Which is then a trap of form – a trap of a way of thinking. It is to be trapped by the idea that there is a beginning and not a continuum. And that there are multiple phenomena at play in any given situation at any time. But at the same time that you are part of that phenomena. But even further that this phenomena is not actually real. Because it is a series of calculated actions and response. A series of ‘others,’ equally observing and equally observed.

And so knowing that even the uncalculated is to be read as calculated then it makes sense that you would try to distance yourself from this paper. And besides, it was burning a hole in the side of your pants. What would you do with it?

Would you burn it? How many years of bad sex would one get from burning a paper that held one of its deepest secrets? Is there any mythology around flushing a flyer down the toilet? Would you be fundamentally considered a bad person if you slipped it in a friend’s bag while they told you (again) about how important it is to floss and proceeded to show you their entire mouthful of teeth?

Or, it could just be a flyer – right?