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All this time, [May. 28th, 2016|08:40 pm]
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There is one simple thing wrong with you – you think you have plenty of time, ---- Don Juan to Carlos Castaneda,

Four months ago, staring at my feet in Curitiba, Brazil. It was a few hours after it happened, I’d never had a gun pointed at my head before, and still haven’t. They kept them hidden. I was thinking - is this where I should be going, what I should be confronting?
I have been destroying buildings of waste hidden out in my heart ever since. There is still much work to be done. I don’t know where all this is going, but I am sitting with a candle through the long Peruvian nights, urging up strength, finding stories, searching out shamans (slowly), and sometimes examining my toes. How far they have come, how far all our toes have come.

Stories can be found here,
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the collectors, [Sep. 22nd, 2012|01:10 am]

you are not one of many,
you are you,
and nobody else is as
foolish, absurd or sensitive
quite like you.

don't turn to dust, please remember.

[photo julieandthenarwhal]
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wild fruits I have known, [Mar. 13th, 2012|11:22 pm]
The Letters of Edward Gorey and Peter F. Neumeyer

The small tree in front of my little house has sprouted flowers. It is the only blossom so far in the garden. Spring has come cartwheeling towards me.

Along my arms are deep scratches without maps. They appeared while waiting for a pizza handmade at the front of the shop by an Italian man born from the centre of an oak tree.
Every time I arrive back here, I look forward to the sound of the pavement slabs moving underneath my tyres just as I approach home. 
Each evening when I drink tea, Ian approaches me believing that he is invisible. I gaze straight at him as continues to creep. He would not fare well as a deer.
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vanishing, [Feb. 19th, 2012|02:55 am]
Edison’s anti-gravitation under-clothing, 1879

And I feel I have something to say before my destruction,
- Kendall, letter to Anais Nin.

Impossible things refuse to jump out of my hat any more.
I pass much of the time, these days, inside of this hat speaking with a rabbit over tea and biscuits. And time constantly tumbling past me in a flurry. I hold onto it sometimes and it drags me, half dead to the sea. I rub my eyes, astonished to still be alive, perplexed that this is my life and that it is not full as it should be, it is not bursting with passion in this moment. The greatest crime I could ever commit - licking away at the sun and murmuring about forgotten days, wishes made in the wilderness. 
In this time, I am not a magician.
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me levanto, [Feb. 9th, 2012|03:07 am]
Fritz Goro - Sooty tern chick standing forlornly as it waits for its parents from their daily hunting on the Great Barrier Reef, 1950.

I felt I was myself a crawling insect doomed to perish, seized by destruction in the midst of a whole world ready to go to sleep.
-Knut Hamsun

I collected herbs from the mountains and dropped them into my breast pocket of my coat. Every time I put it on now, I am taken back. 
Each morning I cycle to the sea and work on my Spanish for at least an hour. When Siberia leaves, I will begin to run again. And there are certain books that I pick up that remind me of heightened senses. I try my best to avoid them when the sinking days are around, as if drowning myself voluntarily. 
The sacred white tea that was found behind a bakery in Denmark is with me here, six months on. It still clears my eyes, steadies my breaths. I drink it rarely, in the important times.
This is an important time. I am no longer headless but I wish the existential crises' would just shoo. There have been so many over the last couple of years. Does it matter what I'm doing with my life? Shoo, shoo. It does not help in the slightest that there is a dog across the road with exactly the same problem. He and I howl together often but he's far more persistent than me and rarely sleeps.
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