‘This time I promise not to listen’
Portsmouth – London – Portsmouth
8th August 2013
I sit on the train without words – they were used yesterday along with a hard choice on Monday – my mind made up I need a break as am struggling – I re-read yesterdays twitter poems and hopeful of what today may bring from the 2 meetings – one with a publisher interested to tell my ‘story in picture’ and evaluation of Konfirm project.
I wish i could write today but they have flown.
My head pressed back into seat i close eyes to read
Publishers: The day goes well – The underground is deserted as I make my way to the Angel – a short walk bombarded with pavement treasures (documented) and I’m sat talking to the Editor – shes good it goes well – I lay image over word describing my experience since I can remember – child-like – I don’t need to die to see my life flash in front of me – DVD style aspergers brain – there is good and bad in this skill. The meeting ends positively – something to work towards – am found – this I ‘need’ although sometimes depression barges in and lies to you………….
but
I wont listen – I promise myself this time I wont listen
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I walk an unfamiliar road willingly
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Konfirm documentation: The British library looms over me as I meet with Jo outside – we enter and sit in the cafe – an attempt to sort refreshments ends in aspie-failure before I get to the till. Jo gets the coffee and we start the conversation – I learn watching the central core of books – a break and while Jo is absent a man approaches me – ‘you look like a professor would you like to join us later for our current affairs discussion group’
Secretly pleased at my promotion I politely decline and we carry on
Later I leave – sure its all over – battle the underground hell and Waterloo – home without words
I need to stop now
I need to stop
I need to
I need
I need me back
I need silences
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7th – Written in with Mozilla
Tread light
her
Patterned
Space
Hexagonal
Contact
slate grey
Enable movement
banish fear
As I sit
Chrome reflected
Eating dried strawberries
& written on the journey
She skims
Low
Over
Wheaten
Bedrock
Tracing
Tiny
Hidden
Flight lines
Entwined
Neatly
Over
Brow beaten
Footfall
At
Ninety degrees
Of innocence
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