most certainly

this is how I feel today and this century

Thirst For Knowledge May Be Opium Craving

read this

my best poem yet

the shiteing shitheads of doom
fill me up with glowering gloom,
follow me into my bathroom,
where they multiply and mushroom,
and I'm a foul smelling buffoon.
I'd get them with my harpoon
if I had one,
or if I had a clue
how to skew
the shiteing shitheads of doom.

Joanna Newsom - The Sprout and the Bean

Waking up, it’s not pleasant. Dreams so intense my heart is softly quaking and I do not want to open my curtain. Snow covered back garden at the old house, then I look again and the snow is gone. I make a note ' all this will be gone, all this childhood, I must make a note & take a photo of every living thing in this garden'. I am wandering through the house, I am in my old bedroom. And Sarah and Emma are there, and its a hopelessly painful situation, my heart is breaking. And I see a ghost of Mum, and I follow her into Emma's bedroom, and it is Mum from when I was little, no more than eight. And she will not show her face to me, I just see her hair and her clothes and I embrace her, and I can feel her, the way she felt when I was eight, and this is just before I look out into the garden and see all the snow. She has disappeared but I don't think I've noticed. The garden is so beautiful.

I see shadows of my soul here, the truth lying at the bottom of some soil, in between bricks and through empty corridors. In the form of Emma's room, of Sarah's room. In my own room, the gardens, the loft, my parents' bedroom, the dining room and lounge, backyard and the drive. How can anything be etched as this is on my entire soul so? It is, it is my growing up, and I am still trying to figure out what it all meant, no, what it all means, it is as important today as it was then, remembering who I am and what happened to me, the shamanic impact of these memories, the light and beauty, the dark dark places, the no go areas. This is the world I want to write about. This is the realest thing.