To siblings 1&2

Don't grow up.
Stay small.

Fight me every day.

These moments are fleeting,
barely-tangible things,
flying by fast
on silver-silhouetted wings.

Don't run.
Stay awhile.

Don't grow up
Or tall
Don't change at all.

Don't rush fate,
Or time;
Be late.

I'm in no hurry to
Let you grow
Let you go
Let time flow
Like a river

Deliver
The goods.

Deliver
Me.

Say that you'll be there
Ten years from now
Twenty
Thirty
Sixty-five.

Don't grow old
Stay small
Don't grow at all
Don't forget,
Or regret
Regretting,

Be as you are.

Fight me every day.

Only then can we cheat the murky, fleeting memories
That time threatens you will be.

An Ode to Hart

Hart, O Hart,
Succumb not to the brain fart
Ruining your mental facilites
With diabolical ease
Do not plague us so
Don't presuppose we know
Or understand
Your verbal diarrhoea
We'd rather not be here
It's true and a fact
We'd rather have none of that
Bull that you spew
The ounces of sense you make
Are alarmingly few
SPARE US the mental anguish
Allow us not to languish
In the recesses
Of your philosophical abscesses
O Hart, we cannot lie,
If you weren't already dead,
We'd will you to kindly fuck off and die.

Bill - Colour

A bit shoddy, but.... :)

Stupidness!

...And some retardedness. Oh my.

Expressions - Family I

Expressions - Poochie

Faces

Fotocatches!

Lost pictures

Fire

Something wicked this way comes

More Pics

By the sea

Natural

The first thing that runs through your mind when woken up at 1.30 in the morning and being told that someone you love is dead is “I really should be feeling more cut up about this.”

You think - I really loved him, so why the hell aren’t I tearing my hair out and rolling around on the floor? Moments pass. The bearer of these sad tidings watches you carefully. They’re wondering the exact same thing. Okay, thinks the messenger. Wait for it. Waiiiit for it. Waaaaaaiiiiit for iiiiit….

Nothing happens.

I tell myself that I’m in shock. That it’ll hit me eventually. Just not now. I’m not cold and heartless. I’m not. I’m just in shock.

I suppose this is natural. If there is even such a thing.

Natural is the sun rising in the east. Natural is feeling cold during the winter. Natural is what comes up must come down. Natural is every action must have an equal and opposite reaction. Natural is when ice floats.

I don’t know a damned thing about “natural”.

Are emotions ever natural? On one hand you can argue that to feel intense emotion is a natural thing. Something inescapable. On the other, you can argue that violent fits of passion are unnatural, dangerous things. Emotions reserved for psychopaths. People who can turn a pair of tweezers into a deadly weapon.

I sit back and tentatively allow this wave unsettling calm wash over me. Is it normal that I’m not afraid? That I’m not crying?

Waiiiit for iiiit…

***

The day is cloudy and overcast. Perfect funeral conditions. The ride up is quiet, mostly. And when I say quiet, what I really mean that every thought in my head has tripled in volume. The radio is maddening static, hissing and cackling like fireworks. We cannot tolerate this madness. We cannot tolerate this madness, emotion.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she says, and I want to claw her eyes out.

Emotion does this to you, I suppose. Maddening emotion.

I’m waiting for the explosion,

But nothing happens.

I suppose this is natural, if there is even such a thing.

Waiiit for iiit…

***

It’s the little things you miss the most. The stupid things. The things you took for granted. The things you loved the most without even realizing it. The stupid smiling eyes. The clumsiness. The bully in him. The way he turned the whole house upside down. Chaos personified.

‘Little brother’, we called him.

Malli.

***

We stop to buy flowers. He loved flowers. He loved to pee on them. Sometimes, if there wasn’t enough rain, the plants would wither and die. What a way to die – to have drowned in his urine.

But that rarely happened. After all, an up-country drought would be like an unrigged “democratic” election; like a perfect banana; like me handing in homework on time –

Ie: highly unlikely.

Everyone who hears is in tears. But not me. I tell myself this is natural. That it will hit me eventually.

Waiiit for it…

***

We bury him on the bank just above the vegetable garden, below the peach tree, surrounded by haleconias. It starts to drizzle. The sky is cloudy and overcast; perfect funeral conditions. The wind bites our skin as it whizzes past our cheeks. The cold is percolating our bones. We’re shivering but refuse to move until the deed is done.

GG is digs furiously. Chocolate-brown earth flies past his face, red and clammy. I can’t tell if he’s crying because the rain gets in the way, blurring the details; making the scene a little more surreal.

I’m waiting for the explosion. There’s something glowing white-hot inside of me, threatening to push past the numb disbelief and make its’ grand entrance. As sibling places flowers and incense at his head, the white-hot glow intensifies.

This is it, I think.

But there is no explosion.

The pressure that’s built up in my chest deflates like a balloon.

Disappointing anticlimax.

It’s only after I turn and walk away that I realize I’ve been crying. I suppose there was an explosion of white-hot emotion after all, only it was silent, like an explosion in space; in a vacuum.

Just because the explosion is silent doesn’t mean it never happened.

I cannot tolerate this madness, emotion.

Maddening emotion.

I berate myself for being a drama queen; for being melodramatic and hypersensitive. I tell myself that I’ll be perfectly fine. That I’m probably caught up in the moment and that I probably don’t give a damn he’s dead at all.

I realize that I loved him without realizing it.

He was just a damn dog.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks, square my shoulders and walk inside for a cup of well-earned coffee.

He lies on the bank just above the vegetable garden, below the peach tree, surrounded by haleconias, covered in wet earth.

I tell myself I’m fine. I ignore the pressure in my chest and complain about the cold.

I ignore him as well,

And pretend this never happened.

I suppose this is natural, if there is even such a thing.

Happy Christmas!

Cries in the dark

And the photoshopped version...

Orange

Orange! Sweet, sun-kissed orange
You warm the cockles of my heart
And the soles of my feet.

Orange! Vibrant, welcoming orange
You vivacious, wonderful thing
That gives life to neon street signs.

Orange! Tender, juicy orange
You light up the world, you light up my life
You draw attention away from my ugly toes (Because my shoes are orange, duh.)

Orange! My Exciting, gentle, citrussy orange
You are so very bright and orange
Like an orange.

Orange! Pungent, aromatic orange
I bathe my hair in your life-juices
For you are purely orange juice.

Orange! I love you so!
You warm the cockles of my feet
And you give life to neon street signs.
You are tender and gentle, juicy and exciting
You carry the greatness of your kind within your weary peel
Orange! There is only one word that would do your splendor justice
And that word that sums you up is simply...
Orange.

Trusts

Shuffling. Sniffing. Sighing. Squirming. The dull hum of ceiling fans melding in to the dull hum of Jayasinghe’s voice.

Restlessness.

Tuesday afternoon blues. Tuesday afternoon ambles on.

“Anyhow, the topic is: Beneficiaries’ rights.”

We’re startled out of our dozy state. My brain is still stagnant. Pens on paper. Click, click, click. Shuffle, shuffle. My hand is moving to the beat of his accent, but I do not comprehend. I look at my notes and all I see is blah, blah, blah.

Get me out of here.

I’m writing a story. I nudge the paper into her face; sleeping, squashed into the table. She ignores me. I hate her. I pick up my pencil and begin again. This story is never ending. This is the story of my life…in Trusts.

Get me out of here.

***

She shoves a statute into my hands. After staring at it incomprehensibly for a few seconds the tiny molecules of my brain make my hand write my name on the top-left hand corner. Right. Satisfied with my handiwork, I turn to the story.

“As equitable owners…”

Crap. Only seconds too late I realize that Jayasinghe has started the lecture again. Although I start writing only half my brain is there, paying vague attention. After months, no, years of practice the other half that is imagination flits lazily between the note and heavily lined memories.

I finish printing the last line and shove the paper towards Anjalie. Bemused. Wondering. What sort of travesty will she come up with next…?

***

“Representing their interest to them…”

Jayasinghe drones on, drawing us in. No one quite understands what he’s saying, but he holds us captivated by the rise and fall of the tone of his voice. I myself have given up on the note. I have spent the last ten minutes decorating Mariam’s file.

Green T.

Fade in, fade out. Blending colours. Emerald green and ripe paddy field green. As green as new leaves, as neon lights. I’ve always loved colouring.

Highlights now. Swirls of black break apart and stretch the length of that T. They stretch for miles and mile before they meet again; unexpectedly as old friends. They intertwine and scatter drops of ink across the horizon.

The horizon – Mariam’s emerald T.

“…can terminate the trust the moment he turns sua juris…”

I am lost in my own kaleidoscopic imagination.

Jayasinghe lectures on.

***

I hurriedly glance through the story whilst writing the note. Giving up on the lecture is not an option for me. I idly wonder how much studying we’d get done if Jayasinghe morphed into Johnny Depp. Or, better yet, if Anjalie morphed into Wentworth Miller. I imagine I can feel my brain smile rapidly.

Finally! He has stopped. My brain is still stuck in limbo. I can hear Anj and Mariam talking. Blah, blah, blah. Anj is humming. La la la. I don’t think words can penetrate my brain.

Mariam said a bad word.

***

This is the story of my life in Trusts. Shuffling. Sniffing. Sighing. Squirming. The dull hum of ceiling fans melding in to the dull hum of Jayasinghe’s voice.

Restlessness.

Tuesday afternoon blues.

Tuesday afternoon ambles on.

Earth

Hand and foot

Poochie's hand and foot. We had fun!!

God's annointed

He is the candle to our night

He is our holy, guiding light

He is the shining morning sun

He is God's annointed one.

Bones

Sketches of stuff

By the way, the background of the last drawing is made up entirely of my writing (in this case, criminal law notes).