Tag Archives: pages


To new beginnings in familiar places…what goes around comes around.

7th June, 2016: We wheeled ourselves into a haphazard circle on a sunny afternoon in the midst of reddish dirt and wisps of dried grass. The breeze swept carefully tucked hair and long dresses up ever so slightly, teasing us all, playful. We turned like a merry-go-round in third gear, a carousel of chit chat about us. There’s just something about small talk, especially when it no longer feels so small…

8th June, 2016: Old faces in new places have made me feel somewhat dizzy, a retrospect looming. I’m beginning  to feel like the world is a little pocket, occasionally stuffed with the old acquaintance or childhood friend who once played pretend with me, scribbling with crayons just outside the box. Coincidences are funny and it’s quite a jest to welcome, even if it’s met with some old-fashioned and long learned apprehension.

9th June, 2016: An unconventional end befell my collection of books stored away in boxes 575 kilometers away, in the form of insects with an unfortunate appetite for moist pages…dampened by the careless faucet left leaking in the upstairs flat,water dripping its way down the cracked cement. Sometimes it’s better to forget rather than be maudlin and so I’ve taken to technology for my reading, an artifice in its screen and font adjustments, replacing the paperbacks and hardcovers. Although it warmed up to me, I think I like to romanticize the past and the people boxed away in it, love them as I do.

10th June, 2016: The sound of clanging forks and chit chat is the perfect backdrop for a bit of light reading, as a cup of tea sits upon the table. The breeze is dotted with drizzle as the finished paper cup threatens to totter over just shy of the large windows. Perfect weather can make for less of a dull time, ticking away in an otherwise unoccupied hour here and now. A recipe for renewal.

11th June, 2016: Thumbing pages of books and notepads has become second nature, a tell tale sign of my mind wandering. A friend asked me if it calmed me down but quite the contrary, I think it makes me feel all the more elated, alive with ideas and quaint possibilities.

Stitching Flesh

Be it lives as stories and bodies as paper

Dripped in ink and at the edges taper

I can fashion fine parchment to write

Be cautioned for it is made in spite

Yet if you remain curious to know

I’ll tell you now, you needn’t go


Cut a sliver with a blade number eleven

for a thin sheet of flesh two by seven

Make twenty alike and cut an inch steeper

Till the maroon tinge of skin is deeper

Here you slice careful and through

For a thick cover of muscle eight and two

Pull the capillaries and veins

and stitch the flesh pages without stains

Thread them through a needle strong

And stitch a coptic design along

Then saw through the marrow until the bone

And strategically pry a piece for one button alone

Pin it to the front cover and and loop a string

Made of arteries to add details of finishing


Swab the note book with cotton and gauze

Then stop, take a minute and pause

Write the name of the deceased (wo)man

Supposing it’s either Richard or Anne

Make sure it’s in the top right corner

For whatever else I am, I always give due honour