Thursday, 18 October 2012


Paper folds over and we make tiny concertinas, tiny accordions, tiny lives that overlap and underlap. In the small caffeine curve of the morning, images flicker in my brain like a zoetrope. I want the words to describe:

DMT, ayahuasca ceremonies in the depth of the lush, leafy, Mayan ruins. A shaman waves his stick. Everything turns to liquid plastic and silk.

Burlesque atop a circus pony, a whip cracking, a stocking peeling back, silk scarves, champagne corks, crimson lipstick, and the midget ringleader in the top hat walks in circles, cackling at the big top.

The gods pick up the globe like a bowling ball and send it down the centre of lane. A crow is laughing from its belly. The birds flock round the skies on the surface; the birds form a patchwork blanket with the weft and warp of their wings.

Strange scenes. The after-effects and flickers of a pipette full of wonder. Let’s drink another coffee, sit quiet, and think about the stories. Think about the words we’ll use to tell.

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