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                                              across the room
                                through the patio doors
                                through the conservatory windows
                at the bottom of the garden
                the still bifurcated trunk of
                                the oak
                before the let-grown hair and fringes
                                of the fir tree
blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun

                                from childhood – I just don’t know
                so I learn to read a what and when
                I learn to make a how and why
                                and get so lost
every time I am blind-sided and over-ridden

                                I had
                based my identity (out
                                of ‘don’t know’)
                                on my seen and proffered
                                I had
                invested my value
                                in my take and provision

                so I become transparent
                                and even shake my chains a little
                                              every time
                                                              for such a long time now
that I sigh a tragedy and become a melodrama
                                all by myself


                I have good ideas and do some good things
                                              but they never were and never could be
                                I had … them
                                I created … them
                and I am ever far far quieter and wider than any local opinion or play
                                              if only I could remember that
                                              if only I could live that

                                trouble is
                the seeking validation
                the seeking confirmation that what I say and do
                                              is valid in the world

                what I think and do is valid but
                                not because
                                              and never only because
it wins a notice or purchase in the world all like the wind

                                              I have
                so much freedom and so much power in the world
                                I can think anywhere
                                              I can do anything
                                if only I did but squander it all chasing pieces of silver

                I’m way too polite
                                I don’t obstruct I don’t get in the way
                I keep objection to myself
the only way as a child to be of value or benefit throughout life
                                hoping someone will notice the golden silence I have to offer
                in a pathologically uninterested world





being & identity & reading wormhole: only
childhood wormhole: cupboards
combe end wormhole: 3:30 am
conservatory & recognition wormhole: again
creativity wormhole: inverse superhero
doing & life wormhole: Child of Illusion
doors wormhole: the early morning of the sixties
fir & garden wormhole: dream 040198 / Eglinton Hill
ghosts wormhole: nightmare
gold wormhole: heavy shower …
learning wormhole: good / enough
oak & sitting room wormhole: ‘the next station / is Hever’
power wormhole: the way
silence wormhole: zazen in everyday life
silver wormhole: Eridge Station
sun wormhole: red net curtains / with appliqué blooms
thinking & wind wormhole: through the window
time wormhole: too
values wormhole: Put service back into people rather than productivity
world wormhole: Woodbrooke labyrinth / affirmations
windows wormhole: through the window
winter wormhole: the sun / in a clean / industrial / sky