Tagged: diary

Gold Dust and Birds

The keys form cords that induce an eyeball elevation.

Flickering frames, birds flying in and out of vision.

A pigeon or a crow replacing the mighty ginger eagle of the sea,

From way back then.

The beach became paving slabs and moss,

The sun disguised by brick not coconut.

The Arabian Sea profound and distant.

Warm Indian faces replaced by impatient Caucasians at the bus stop K.

Lentils to tinsel

Beetroot from jars

Water to Wicked.

Brown as a berry coated in snow.

A Letter to The Prison Libary

To and from the September Floods

Instant History – Polaroids From Then

Who Are You Internet?

There is a build or back log of posts that should be published. The ones i think are boring get liked, understanding not like. Are bloggers boring or am i thinking too much about my pitch. Who pitch the pitch. Pitch. Who are you internet?

Who are you internet? Who are you internet? A head bobs every time i hit one to five, keyboard wise. Letters bad for the continuity but surprisingly not. These words providing physical wing scratching, bothering but the crispy face sleeping feels as good as a scrub.

Lost Posts – Leaving the Monastery

You’ve Come Home

The light outside shielded by fabric, drapes, muted. Soft and gentle inhales. The piano and songs about snow.

A small pink lantern looking better on that stall in Bombay.

Coral harmony creeping effortlessly from technology while they work away, painting, filing, i stay horizontal.

All days are different but flat connects one to the next. Siesta?

Nothing apart from a few clothes, a pottery dalmatian, breath and memories. New ones in the making.

A quiet Friday listening to songs about snow.

Almost Home – The End

After two days on aircraft and the generic spaces within i am here, home, back in the UK – whatever that means. The train heads north from London, home bound. Eight months exactly from the day the train headed south towards london; towards the first flight right at the very beginning. A train with clean glass windows and smooth seemingly soft silent tracks.

Almost as silent as the carriage. No eye contact, no words, even from the people less than a metre away across the table. I smile, say hi. Nothing, however i am aware that i look ridicules in my red woollen hat, vintage yellow Burmese shades and shaking with the cold.

The great british public. The race who don’t speak to strangers. Silence, head in books, looking at mobiles, staring into laptops. Distraction to avoid conversation, interaction anything? I join the head down massive and write, whilst interacting with the distant view beyond the window instead. Words sprinkling out in between gazing through the glass at the running cable lines bouncing and the blue sky epically built with glowing structures of cloud. Heading backwards, horses, countryside, studded with trees, space, remnants of industry past but brick formations present. Spiny leafless deciduous trees shooting their first signs of spring; not that i can see from this distance and at this speed.

No hanging out of open doors smoking, no pushing shoving screeming Indians ( sigh ), no Burmese music videos, to tiny Laos bed bus’, no Thai hostesses looking really bored – all replaced with silence, the occasional Geordie accent and the train announcements, which i can hear! However it is comfortable. Rolling green being the biggest contrast to the barren desert of Doha, only yesterday. I will come to pine for this contrast.

Less than two hours and we pull into the station. Friends and family waiting. A rather special meet and greet i am sure. Sad for whatever the last eight months has been to be over. Reflection coming when reality sets in, or is that just it, over, done finished. That was yesterday. Exhausted but horizontal is over the horizon.

Time to Turn into a Chicken Nugget

As the tears drop out onto the page i wonder. Analysis of this being a good or bad decision? Three days left in India, then transit for over two. Friends and family waiting on the platform as the train pulls into Durham City, the exact location from where all of this started. Drip drip drop. The sorrow of leaving this exotic freedom behind, but the elation of seeing loved ones. Split, splatter, drip drop. Organs are seventy thirty.

No more worries of disease, earthquakes or being  tsunami’d away, but so much wonder to miss. Returning to England will take me over, blending again once more into nothingness. The brown will fade to white, the small to not and wild adventure replaced by routine, patterns and the normality of staying put.

Whenever i have professed to have changed, to keep Asia inside of me i have failed. This time i am not kidding myself that all i have learned i will carry. It’s impossible. See how i feel in a week, once the greetings are over. Sure to be floored, lost, splattered until i can connect the pieces, join some fragments and build something from the last eight months. To find a way to re-form, all chicken nugget like.