Thursday, 29 March 2018

there be the love of my life...

arnakuluk. She and I run down prey with the wolf pack in the arctic tundra and the hills of flowing white.

Kina una? I ask.

-Suuq. Una uvanga? she replies.


and that tomorrow will come


Tuesday, 27 March 2018

when the darkness of the dawning winter's light

weighs heavily upon my soul what sustains me from succumbing to its palpable repression is that I know that I'm loved.

Monday, 5 March 2018

full disclosure

I'm sure I'll never stop loving any of my children, including the one who called me by my name.

Actually, I've always been proud of all three (including my bud). Always knew that they're all remarkable, bright and full of potential since I held them in my arms for the first time. They all had (have) the same spark in their eyes, all brilliant in their ways. All three (including my bud) prone to using my t-shirt as a snot rag as they clung close to me, holding my arm tightly. Pure heaven to me.

I'm a jealous dad but not really a jealous person.

It really hurt when my youngest called me by my name.

After so many years of physical absence, radio silence when my love-love finally contacted me and addressed me as a common stranger, all I could think about was she calls that dullard her 'dad' (sorry but all people look the same to me 'til they talk). That oaf reminds me of the opening theme to Weeds:

little boxes on the hillside, little boxes of ticky tacky. little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same. there's a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one...and they all look the same.

I concede that that dullness probably feels as I do about his child...only lifeless and without imagination...probably never been stoned, never been authentic.