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)