Archive for October, 2016


I’m at home in the world,

it’s all I’ve known,

after all,

and I feel like I’ve been alive for ever

(it’s as long as I can remember).

But, increasingly,

I’m feeling out of place,

out of my depth,

in society.

Fundamental disconnect.

Your common sense and values,

your priorities,

no longer

equate with the logic in my head,

incompatibilities rising,

and I feel an imperative to escape.

Past, present, future…

Insert page break.


He asked me what kind of dog I would like, if I wanted a dog (which I don’t). I played along.   Okay, well… I’m not one for pedigree pooches, or dogs that require a lot of grooming. No, I’d want a strong little mutt, a mongrel with spunk. A real muttnik. Yes!…


From scavenging on the mean streets to flying amongst the stars, straight into my heart, like the best kind of TV movies. Ahh…


Well, it’s not exactly the Garden of Eden.

Hell, it doesn’t even have a snake!


’56, huh?

Makes me think of Blood In The Water.

Men in speedos.

Heroes of sorts.

Hungarians taunt Russians.

Russian Bear retaliates.

Hungarian blood flows.

Russians booed by world.

End of story.

Cold War story everlasting.

Blood and belonging.

Kith, kin and shit,

how we love our own!

Blood is thicker than water.

Blood is *in* the water.

Of course,

the “Russian” team had Georgian, Jewish and Ukrainian members,

maybe an ethnic German too (who decides these things?)

(who defines these things?) …

Homos Sovieticus, in a good way.

Nothing so straightforward, black and white, as collective imagination.

Krov’ v basseyne.


The Poet,

The Writer,

The Reader,

The Thinker,


Spoken, Unspoken, Mindful,

Reflective, Projective,


Monumental and Immortal.

If you are reading these words,

in the future,

then the present is already the past,

and your future is,

probably not what you imagined it would be,



for so long as one of us breathes,

and reads,

and thinks deeply,

there is hope.


“So, what do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I breathe,” I replied.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled,

then, when he realized I wasn’t going to add anything more,

he nodded thoughtfully,

slowly taking it on board,

almost frowning.


He asked me what I thought about the news, something about wannabe presidents, liars and criminals.

I had to close my eyes and think, I knew I’d heard something, and I knew I had an opinion about it, but I couldn’t remember what.

An unsettling feeling, some kind of stupid.

I tried to recall, painful time past,

painful seconds passed.

And then I realized, it wasn’t my fault: modern news reporting isn’t about information, it’s about confusion.

Yes, there’s facts, figures, opinions and analysis, but it’s presented in such a way as to be overwhelming.

They bombard you with numbers, rarely repeating, you wonder if you heard right.

(*Psychological torture!*)

Slurred statements and changes in volume, innuendo is loudest.

The stories of worth are lodged in between baloney, and they move from one to the other at breakneck speed, blurred lines.

Questions are left unanswered and when something worthy is reported you’re not given any time to digest it, to think it over, no, they hijack your brain in another direction. You might as well have not listened.

At the end of the broadcast, you’re not informed, you’re tuned out and confused. Disengaged. Abused.

But then, that’s what the powers-that-be want, isn’t it? They pretend to be open and involve the public – just enough to bamboozle and exclude us, just enough for us to raise our arms in despair and say: we don’t understand the complexities, lead us, oh masters, as you see fit.

Democracy in action.


After talking a little it became clear that he got his abiding sense of the USSR, the Warsaw Pact and the whole Eastern Bloc more from childhood memories of Rocky IV than the overarching Western revisionist vibe that “we” were a crumbling mess, just waiting to implode and fall (like the cursed wall). Indeed, he was impressed by what we were, are and seemed to be. He was a believer.


I spoke.

He listened.

He noted my accent and asked where I was from.

I kept the answer as simple as I could.

He smiled and said: that’s okay,

we don’t have to be enemies.


It starts with a cliché, like all great stories.

A park bench.

Two lonely, broken people sitting at opposite ends of the bench, per chance, there was no space at the other benches.