I’ve not picked up a pen to write by way of prompts outside of my own thinking in two weeks now. There were days I did quickly check-in, but felt some aversion to the cracking, the squeezing, there just wasn’t a need to be expressive, me in my grinding walnut shells, expanding lemons.
In dream symposium fashion, I remember to remember the nighttime visions, the days before time, the circular paths of meetings on these long veins of coming back again.
Jung and his blue heads, each closer to the earthy core each more clear in its makeup, distinguishable eyes and mustaches, most men, some women, all their own lifetimes and out on the periphery are the skulls, no longer distinguishable without a scientific reenactment of cheek-fats built up like clay to be a face.
I have been to Kings Cross and had to make a choice of which way to go. Sometimes, rather than write their names, people simply make designs in the sand—curls and zig-zag’s, giant circles with dotted eyes.
Today, there are piles of dirty ocean, yellow foams, clumpings of snarled seaweeds hefted over crunchy and empty Dungeness shells, three dead sea-lions, all at differing stages of decay.