There is an ecstasy in all of this; in the setting of the sun, the ending of a war, the birth of a new day, a new life. But there is also ecstasy in the darkness; the buoyant grief of disappointment, the solitude of despair, of loneliness, of death. We test the waters of this sadness, of joy, dipping in only a few toes, then our foot, then we wallow, only to then discover that far beneath us are depths we could never have imagined. I hold your hand and we swim through them together, and maybe you'll let go and maybe you'll hold on, but I'll never truly know because, really, we're all just doing this alone anyway.

It is immersive, and immense.

There is bravery in leaving one's home, this vast ocean, to seek a new life on land, but isn't there also fortitude in returning to the cool depths; the land found too dry, too empty, absent of rest but also of true sadness. This is our Letting Go: the prodigal sons and daughters returning to Mother Ocean, her gentle arms softening our cracked skin, her cool breath calming our hot chests.

At last this freedom is real. At last hope, and hopelessness, will be real. And I'll swim deeper, master of my destiny but subject to it, the current pulling and pushing me, my arms digging into the icy liquid, pulling me to some dark, lonely place I can call home.

Do the consequences ever strike him?

He will meet me there, or he will leave me alone. And the song of my brothers and sisters, from the surface far above, will one day reach me, my eyes all but faded in the darkness. Is it a welcoming, asking me to surface, or a warning, imploring me further into the depths? And I will sing one lonely chorus, my voice lost in the cold.

And then I will sleep.

No Homo.

I love my cat. No homo.

I feel like going on a murderous rampage. No homo.

The scientific name of tea is camellia sinensis. No homo.

Add three tablespoons of flour and one teaspoon of baking powder. No homo.

Avocado. No homo.

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. No homo.

We all fall down. No homo.

Barcelona

I do not believe I will die, and this is one of the great peculiarities of life. It could happen anywhere and, more importantly, anywhen, and yet it is our final destination, so it feels that there should be some sort of build-up, that we should feel it coming, some sort of excitement or terror (really, they're the same thing). I feel I could very happily sit, drinking wine and trying to make art; would death be more real then?

When we have our 30 (40, 50, 60...) hour weeks, our 9 (8, 7...) to 5 (6, 7...), life has outlines, and you know what you must do and when (but never really why), and because of that, we never have time to prepare for death, to feel it approach, soon to overtake us. We know one day we will retire and perhaps, one day long after that, our mind or our body (and eventually both) will go and we will gently slide from obsolescence to expiration.

But if we had no structure, if I were to really walk from this life and maybe even be happy, would death seem all that more real, because I would have these thoughts as I'm having now, and the time to wonder but, more importantly, time to LIVE? To pursue great art, thoughts, time.

The bohemian dream is dead, but what reality has taken its place?

I sit here and write this, and I know I love Barcelona, and I love Berlin, and I know that I will return to Brisbane, to work that I love but a job that I hate, and then (really, not long after) I will die, and all of this will continue, and will I have contributed to that? It will go on regardless, but can I affect that course, and "make a difference", or will I pay bills and work to pay them, and then die, leaving more bills, bills producing bills, and then I will leave a trail of paper in my wake, littered with ticks and crosses (both of disapproval and meaningless martyrdom) and that will be all.

And maybe on my grave, they will write "He was a child, and a friend, and he lived and paid bills and taxes and then he died". Here lies the corpse of a taxpayer, a bill payer, a cog, someone who kept this machine (what?) running (why?). And his death is mourned by his family and friends but not many else, because a whole new generation has been born, and a whole other has begun paying bills and taxes, and so there will be no letter from us, for your loss is not our loss, thank you for choosing to shop with us today.

Even in these cities I love, I miss, there is this life of tedium, of obscure but omnipresent bureaucracy, always this clacking of numbers being counted, so I will never escape it, I will never be free. And no matter whether my headstone is in a German cemetery, or at the bottom of the Thames, or even back in Brisbane, it will read the same, and be read by none.

Inspired by Roni Horn's Still Water series (at Fundació Miro, Barcelona) & Tori Amos' Boys For Pele.

Carcassonne

This city would fall, as all cities would fall. But, nearly 2000 years later, here it stood. And my dreams would die, and me expire, as all dreams die, and all expire, but here on this wall, I felt they, we, would not, and we could do, not what we wanted, but what we needed to do. Here there coud be happiness, so could there not be happiness everywhere, if that were what we truly needed to live. I had been touched by death so many times, and if I did not fight, how much longer would it be before that touch became an embrace, the gentle carriage to quiet indifference, a life not unpleasant, nor difficult, but with no possibility of return.

I would choose life, I hoped. I hoped I would have that choice.

little michael

The train juttered and quaked, slowing down and speeding up, occasionally stopping altogether. His fingers reached out and played in the sunlight. He wanted to grab it and pull the sun a little closer, but somehow he knew that air-conditioning wasn’t the only reason for his goosebumps.
He shuffled absently in his seat, anxious with no outlet. His mother placed a hand on his knee and smiled warmly; of course it was OK. He sat back and looked out the window: everything was shining vaguely; in the distance, distinct outlines of graffiti and dissolution.
Somehow the city was all and nothing like he had imagined. It felt like his first trip to the supermarket, guardedly holding on to his mother’s dress as they walked up and down the high-walled aisles.

Now they moved in and out of tunnels and artificial light. The tracks clicked like a drummer not quite sure of the beat. He remembered his brother saying that before they left; “I’ve done things I never imagined I’d do.” Like the train tracks; slightly out of time, not quite right.

The train stuttered to a halt and the doors hissed open and he stands and walks off the train. Fortitude Valley. He’s never thought about it before; fortitude. Like solitude. But it was named after a ship and despite its best efforts, neither fortitude nor solitude can be found there.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

An August night. Or maybe it’s July.

In some blissed-out trip and I feel like I could kiss the moon.

But it’s a long fall from the moon; ask anyone who knows. So I stay here on the wet grass, feeling the cold wend around me, binding me to the earth to keep my from my celestial lover.

My lonely, wayward lover. The desire of many, the property of none. I reach so desperately and return with so much less.

But these moments; this bliss, this trip. The grass is cold and I reach again until there’s no more left of me, just my distant lover.

Is it any wonder he provides no warmth; just this vague euphoria and the hope of the journey. A journey oft started but rarely completed; ask anyone who knows.

But why shouldn’t I try for this one chance to get off this grass and into the sky? With so little of me, would it really be that hard?

Then I’m crashing hard, before I’m even halfway there. My lover stays his hand, bitter.

But I should have tried harder, reached further, sooner. I reach again, but there’s nothing left of me.

My lover leaves. And I’m as cold as the grass.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

His voice smelled of the sea; not a calm, romantic splash of salty air, but the harsh reality of rotten fish and seaweed, and twenty-hour days caught in rope and leaky boats.

Somehow, it wasn’t totally repulsive, more of a shock: when someone opens their mouth to speak, you do not expect to be transported back to the seaside hideaways of your childhood.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

the fallen matriarch returns

regal, yet defeated; denied the power that was once her right. her body failing, her mind fading; yet she holds her head high, preserving that final vestige of dignity, as she hobbles into the arms of her loved ones. once giving, now receiving, care. her adventuring days are over, now only reminiscence.

she has left her throne for a bed, and a pair of warm slippers, and a cup of tea in the afternoons, just as the sun is beginning to set.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

Do the consequences of this ever strike him? (1)

Do the consequences of this ever strike him? He puts down the spoon, then realises he never stirred in the sugar. Oh well. He puts down the cup, and forgets the tea, and leaves the house. The grass has never been as long and his mind has never been so resolute.

Yes. He will leave.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

Skin

A map was etched into her skin. Not the blue-green of tattoo, but grooves in skin, like wrinkles but more defined, clean-cut. I would let my fingers walk over her, trace the paths we’d walked all those years ago, and she’d laugh and push my hand away and tell me to make my journeys elsewhere. At the centre of her back was the centre of the town, where the lines became too numerous to see clearly. When she lay on her stomach, I’d lie next to her and just look at them, try to imagine walking through those streets again.

And as the town grew, she too grew older. The lines became more numerous and less clear. And still I’d walk them with my fingers, but now she batted my hand away and told me that this was no time for journeys.

She felt the weight of the map as it grew, and I felt my mind run through the streets, and let my eyes wander where they may.

It was no longer a town, but a city. She stayed in her bed. I ran through those streets for real, all so familiar though I’d never seen them, only felt them with the tips of my fingers. And then I stopped running.

A single line reached up to her eyes, and there it stopped, the only place I could ever call home.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

Junk Collection

In the end, the trucks never turned up. You could still see the old television set outside number 13 that had started it all, but the rest of the street was invisible beneath the mounds of junk. Every few days, another piece of junk would appear, maybe an iron, maybe a sofa.

It didn’t seem possible that we’d once been so house-proud. And, really, we still were; once one made it past the refuse-laden naturestrip, our houses were as immaculate as ever, the queens in their counting houses, and kings eating bread and honey.

It was a little harder to get to work since the buses had stopped running, but people offered lifts and carpooled, or just called in to say they couldn’t come in, though the phones didn’t work either. Most people just stayed at home, kept their children occupied now that the schools had closed, cleaned, rationed and re-rationed food. All the houses started to empty as food was eaten, and things broke, or simply got too old to keep, at which time they joined the slowly growing piles outside.

Occasionally, someone would loot a store, and the next day we’d notice their new TV (useless, except to see the test signal), or maybe their cupboard a little more stocked than before. Such raids, though, were generally considered uncouth and frowned upon, though it was eventually decided that taking food or water was permissible, especially since the water had stopped running (though number 19 claimed theirs had run, albeit brown, for another two days).

It was sad when the Campbells of number 16 died, but, at 91 and 87 respectively, they’d had a good run. Their family didn’t turn up, so we had a small service outside, as the smell inside was a little too strong.

A few days later, the Cunanans of number 22 had disappeared. No one mentioned it, but parts of their house started to disappear, and our street enjoyed a brief moment of almost revival. The carpooling had stopped altogether by then; no one did anything at work, and they’d run out of petrol, so they decided to stay at home.

It rained all through the following week. The junk began to sink more deeply into the ground and began to rot. The pile outside number 15 was the first to fall, followed quickly by number 20 and number 14. They mostly fell into the street, but the Herons’ (number 14) fell into their yard and made a hole in the front room. They eventually had to move into number 17 when the rats became too much.

The fire struck all the odd-numbered houses at night. The students in 21 had no chance; the other people ran onto the street and where ushered into various houses on the even-numbered side. Only number 16 remained empty, though perhaps more empty than when the Campbell’s had died.

More families disappeared. Piles of junk sank deeper into the dirt, then crumbled, now growing less quickly.

Number 19 was the last house to remain. No one remembered who was family and who had come from elsewhere. The food ran out first; all that was in the grocery store had been eaten by the rats. Finally the water ran out.

The bodies lined the street in formation, a dead army moving towards sustenance and rest, barely distinguishable from the piles of junk they had built around their fortress.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

Free Writing: 19/Mar/2014

You’ll never understand why she did it. She probably didn’t either. There comes a point where understanding is overrated: instinct takes over and you realise that what you will do is, inevitably, the only possible thing you can do, the only possible thing you should do. There’s no time to think, no time to explain: you take that course and before you know it, the sun has risen on another day but you’re not there to see it anymore. Or maybe you are, just not in the way you used to.

It made more sense to run into the never-ending darkness than to continue to run from shade to shade to shade, to try to escape, presumably forever (could it, even if you wanted it, ever end?) the brightness of the day, the brightness of expectation and confusion and loss and chaos. Today will be the day, she though, and yet it never was. The darkness is always there, and so, too, is the light; neither dimming, neither brightening.

She thinks, I will walk away from this whole. I will be cured. I will be well. They will tell stories of my recovery; I will be a shining (perhaps a different word, something with less light) example of how The Ill Become Better. And not just better: pure, whole, “exceeds expectations”. They will all be proud.

And they remain proud. Always will they talk of her with reverence; the only thing more inescapable is death. Always hushed tones, never wishing to say too much, but hesitant to say too little; quiet whispered words, by loved ones, hidden from loved ones, so as to never upset or hurt those considered too delicate, those who will never be over it.

She thinks, I will walk away from this. I will never be cured. I will never be well. They will tell stories of my decline; I will be a dim reminder of how The Ill Become Worse. And not just worse: lost, broken, “beyond help”. They will never understand.

For there comes a point where understanding is overrated. Her instincts take over and before she can think, before she can explain, she has left. She walks out of her life, as one might walk to the bus stop, or to the shops. Nothing dramatic; the natural course of events, as instinctual as breathing, or jumping out of the way of a car, oblivious to your presence.

She doesn’t understand why. But she will see the sun rise on another day, just not the way she’s used to.