The Noresoup Jukebox

Emmett Sir, what would i do without knowing i have you? you know what my laughter means and can decipher the shifts in tone and lilt and if i come to you, battered and bruised, not even knowing  the words that might describe appropriately, you sit there with me in silence like you understand, even if not fully. and when has a joke revived someone at the wake? what emotion is a problem that requires a solution? you read my mind, allow me to cry, you don't impose a logical reason. and how hard it must have been, for you to do it all alone. wisdom and empathy built from so many years of grovelling before you were grown. yet not many learn from their pain, their years of neglect and guilt. lucky am I that I found you, man of humour, power, and emotional intellect, not having wasted a single drop from all those years of tears shed. lucky is the ground that holds you, and every room you walk into, and luckiest am I  for having known you all those silly growing years you made my yout...

Misty May, Book fair with Mordechai today I wish you could have come, although little would have impressed you for the books incited little fun. Then we stopped by Autumn Brew, still a very lovely cafe. I got a dirty matcha, no sugar, as always, but the caffeine carried me away. It's been lovely playing passenger, I no longer drive as much. Though I do miss you,  scolding me from the back telling me not to rush to the front. In other news, I am at a very  slow, liminal space;  this still-very-lovely life of mine. A few months of trying to find the right answers to --- what will you do? What is next in line? God must be busy opening someone's jar or saving a car from getting towed, Haven't heard from Him quite yet, though my neighbour said  He helped her dead Bougainville grow. Yes, the flowers must bloom in time first, and the clouds must hide till the laundry dries. Misty May, tell me in my silly  predicament, this awful state of being, how must I try to get by...

strawberry cream tea  and this old, damp balcony rin and i at twenty four watching the city lights turn off, one hill at a time small cities do not change much.  rin's ladybird hung in the air like wind chimes, ceramic, winds of change having so much to say and leaves us pondering. how did we survive all those years? and why was love so painful? shifting in my seat camping gear, makeshift table rin wearing butter yellow though seeping red and my disposition growing heavier with every memory dissected the smell of my old twin bed lingers. witnesses may laugh for our lives are now so very different and yet, somehow, all the very same. rin takes the forefront  in all the painful liminal spaces, and she saves me when i find myself in the same terrible darkness. let us trust in what has happened we say there is not much else we can do clarity is in the psalms we once rejected and in the psalms that then saved you and what is God if all He does is answer in riches to every pray...

    all the writers who loved me      wrote about me so very lovingly      mistaking my wit for intellect      and my sorry state for perpetual melancholy           and those who cared little           about what I had to think           satiated their curiosity             with visual feasting           infatuating doll that can bend and moan                 and the ones who loved me sincerely                died so very many moons ago.                waning, waxing, crescent, gibbous,                what do I know? and now this vain pursuit offering love that is to die soon affection that may only las...

sunday night,  what an awful dissolution you bring banana wine waltz in with valour leftovers --- last night's drugs  pulsating in your system the wonders of ecstasy with ladies far more open than me you ponder and sway as I prepare your lemon cake unaware that my mind has been made no more sunday nights as awful as this and what has friendship been to me all this very long hard time if you meet me inebriated and without a clue  worrying about the condition of your romantic pursuit but no man may be in pursuit of the river that changes course this delicate time all the people I know slipping away like sand and the silly grieving that follows of the person they were to me and the loving they left and no death is greater than the one that follows the loss for the person I was with them died with them and how I had achingly longed to meet her again.  you changed faces,  I'm getting to know them one by one but the next change may bear no witness for my hands and eye...

they say Nepal is dying i can see it i can feel it in my bones yet all i worried about was to get the house rat out and well, cheesecake at Glenary's and when they served it  on a plastic plate all i remembered was my bamboo toothbrush standing tall in my tiled bathroom basin. Mordechai told me once, that these efforts do not make a change and so, what effort does it take? what are the marks  that my soles make any good for? when all i leave behind is something far worse than the marks left before. they say Nepal is dying i feel we will too,  soon and the church cries about salvation, and the rapture, the beginning of the end. alas! may God forgive us  for it is our own hands that have brought our suffering.