The travelling mind embraces everything. The travelling mind is a weightless creature; never tied down, it constantly seeks the freshness of a new destination. Insatiable in its hunger for movement; shivering with delight at the thought of upcoming change. The body takes the travelling mind further than it could ever go alone: to discover new universes of experience and exploding constellations of meaning. It is through the senses that the mind is truly submerged in the thought-awakening ocean of the unknown.

How does travel change the person that you are? What shifts in your head; which creaking mechanisms are stopped – no longer necessary – and what new traits bloom like water lilies on the surface of your mind. The change comes in an unstoppable surge of experience and emotion. It penetrates the very core of your being and dissolves in your blood system: and before you know it, it alters the blueprint of your soul.

On the edge of dawn. Fingers entwined in tangled hair; the spine tense
(a frozen twig about to snap).

A minute before the collision:
we are two worlds rolling like red tulips
in the grass.

A study of things tightly shut: polished smooth by incessant thought,

their inside soft as a swirling tongue.

Movement: thick black coffee brewing in a plastic cup

and bright faces clustered like pansies

in a glass box, their eyes fixed on the sky.

A sunweb stretched between the branches: we swing thoughtfully

among the dry shadows and silences of leaves.

Your presence is silence; its yellow boots follow you

down the concrete path and into the garden, where cherry petals rub against each other

like sheets of steel.

Afternoon

Caught up in the sticky bleakness of this day, I writhe in the thoughtlessness. I rage against the silence of the walls. The body, coiled like smoke, dreams empty dreams; the soul pads around aimlessly on its soft paws. In its sleep, the mind tinkles like a silver bell at dawn.

The thought is electrifying: a messenger making his way through the brain
along the tendrils of aching nerves. The body responds.
Arched and tense, it trembles, awaiting in silence the one, final thrust.

I’ve been thinking about the growth of leaves in green cocoons
glued to the gnarled branches of old oaks.
And the sweet scent of unfolding flesh dipped in the evening dew.

When I’m older, I shall wear my restlessness as you wear a sunflower pinned to your coat. It will feed on the warmth of my contracting purple heart. Its head hung, it will sway, snoring gently. It will bide its time; its seeds will stir and mutter in their sleep, till white-hot ripeness builds up inside them, brewing, till it penetrates them, fills them to the brim, and explodes. My sunflower won’t bloom, it will burst in a supernova of heat, of scorched flower flesh, and smoke.

We see her on the street most evenings. She wanders around at night.
We recognize her by the cloud hovering above her hair; the cloud of black beetles with smoky lanterns reflected a thousand times in their wings. Dreambugs, buzzing around her head in a shimmering swarm, wrapped around her arms like a shawl, sliding off her shoulders, flirtatiously, in a black cascade. She scoops them up in her butterfly net; squeezes them in her small fists until the juice begins to flow in sticky amber drops.
This is where dreams come from.

Terracotta

The wheel of fortune turns, squeaking and grunting, and look it pulls you out from the moist red soil you’ve been buried in up to your neck. It’s been a long time, such a long time, how does it feel to be traveling upwards in the blazing sun again, squinting and sweating in the heat; to feel your muscles dance a strained waltz under your skin. Take a deep breath of the diamond air stinging your lungs with a thousand needles. Take a deep breath before you reach the top of the world, where the next step you take plunges you into the sky, this time you will fly, won’t you.

There’s only so much me to go around.
I’ve handed out bits of me like merchandise wrapped in crisp brown paper. Carelessly. Trustingly. There’s only so much trust to go around. I imagine the paper being peeled away impatiently, curious fingers prodding at the crumpled piece of soul; I imagine it opening to the touch like a white flower. I’ve handed out pieces of my soul, randomly, and there’s only so much soul to go around.

For a moment, short as a heartbeat, I am someone else. On my way to somewhere else.

A wonderfully unfamiliar scenery glows gold and grey before my eyes.

The feeling ebbs and reality readjusts itself. Engulfing me.

And as the machine of time grinds minute after minute into sweet brown dust, I begin to forget. I watch, dispassionately and without regret, as memories trickle into oblivion, making way for new arrivals. What remains is smells and sounds – sometimes they will bring a shade of a memory back and cause it to buzz around for a little while, lured by the promise of fruit flesh dripping with sweetness, or by the creaking of lilacs blooming secretly in the dark. It will bump angrily into glass panes and mirrors – and then, just then, if you’re not careful, it stings – until it finds a way out through the cracks I made just above the window frame.

Christmas Day

The sky seeps into this house through the glass dome stretching from here to infinity above its many rooms and corridors; clouds collide with the dome with a soft metallic CLINK.
Tonight, swarms of guests pour into the house to feast. They sink their teeth into juicy meats, grease flows down their fingers, roaring laughter fills their throats.
They tear to pieces. They rip apart. They devour.
And when it’s all done, Gabriel turns off the lights and walks away, absent mindedly wiping his hands on his wings.

It all starts with a piece of land.
I’m almost done with imagining the grass blades but they’re still covered with transparent patches. They shimmer. In and out of focus.
( I’m also having second thoughts about adding ladybugs as a decorative element).
Yesterday I walked along the land’s edge. When I reached out to the earth, it melted into nothing. Today, it is craving a solid form – it arches its sand-colored back to feel my touch.
There will be time for paint spraying an outline of a house among the grass blades, perhaps tomorrow, but first – come, I’ll show you what a magnificent job I’ve done with the roses.

Transitions

Enveloped in cold air, I walk into the stifling heat of a swirling circus with elephants and zebras in it, and lions taking golden leaps through rings of fire. I bury my fingers in the yellow hair, feel the rhythmical breathing of cat muscles underneath the skin. I break free from the embrace. I bow.
I’m wearing a top hat above my eyes (my eyes, they’re emerald green). The tails of my coat flap madly in the hurricane of movement (black butterflies captured in a jar of heat). My fingers are curled around the whip. The whip, it cracks.
Sparks. Fiery dandelions burst beneath my feet. Above the abyss, on a silver thread, I dance. To the sudden sound of silence. I trip. I fall. I twist and turn, a helpless fly in a spider’s web. My umbrella is broken, it has started to rain. The wind tugs at my coat. I take a step forward and the door slides open before me.

A Sculpture of Dust

I’m made of words; those whispered softly in the sweating darkness and those screamed into the icy wind. They settle on my memory like dust, often disturbed by my nervous pacing up and down the tangled alleys of my thoughts.
Sometimes – it feels like I’m about to choke.