Something I found in my note book

I want to be heard – that’s where I’m at. Except being heard is no tonic – my blustering tirades on global politics, relationships, art – my opinions expressed openly, eloquently (on occasion), coherently and convincingly. For what purpose? The gapping hole torn in me remains – it’s not filled up by the act of debate – my or my opponents words don’t turn into substance and heal me.

Problems – what is the hole? Where is it and what is it a hole in?

Why do I need healing?
Why in receipt of awareness and knowledge do I continue to behave?

Oh fuck my nemesis is here again – no matter how it comes dressed up at some point it gives itself away.

Judging myself with harshness. Wanting to be different to what I am, what I say, how I think.


An old grey haired gent stands with his back to me and farts. Three times – long, rasping, multi tonal exultations. And although the wind moves air from his busy behind to my face – no odour can stand out above the cooking oil scent that’s think in the breeze.

Amusement delivered on a plate to remind me that all is not as serious as my embittered and embattled brain would have me think.