saturday was sweet, a pleasure - everyone rolling into the gallery from a walk around chinatown, which is like a solar oven on a day without clouds. I get a hug from a loved former student - mine's stronger than hers though - it seems that she's lost the hopefulness of a year ago, that school teaching is not what she imagined, that the loss of the possibility of grad study has flattened her sense of future, that she can't SEE how she'll continue to write when the kids at home and the kids at work and the personality politics at work do this to her mind. then there's another former student, still sparking with ideas because he's jumped into another dreamer's course, has the money from somewhere, and we're excited to see each other but decidedly we don't hug, just grin and fall into a conversation about the Beckett play he's in - hates it - he wants to PLEASE an audience, why do this to them? but he knows, I say, he knows what he's doing to them, he knows what he's doing to you, couldn't it be the beginning? And 'is there an end to suffering', and don't we have to ask?

the aircon's not strong enough and even as we're quietly writing people start to fall asleep - they've been walking in the oven, then there was lunch. So I make up a game to wake us up. I have copies of a couple of Calvino 'Thin Cities' to discuss. I screw up a napkin to use as a ball. One player is to describe a detail they'd seen on their walk, then throw the ball to another player, who describes the transformed detail as it appears in their own 'thin city'. And so they see a city from above, the buildings burning down like joss sticks, the ash covering the land like snow. They see coffee rivers and children hiding under cardboard boxes. at the end the last woman drifts right away while she's talking - 'relocation notices, layers and layers of them lining the ground...' she says, then 'layers of dead bodies...'. I try to clarify, get more detail but she chokes and says 'it just came out.' we sit quietly for a while after that.

someone on the assessment panel for this programme had complained that one of the application ms's was too dystopian, like this kind of vision is just strategic political grumbling. I'm glad he is in the room to see it happen.

striped mosquitoes down by the lake, biting in the daytime. there's a dengue cluster over the highway; not good. I'm taking photos of the torsoes dangling and twisting in and out of the Benjamin's Fig, trying not to get bitten.

this afternoon there was a welcome dinner in the rooftop garden. cool enough for once. people were offering me their condolences, softly patting my hand or serving my dinner for me, saying 'I heard'. so strange when nothing's happened; a couple of twists of misfortune in the workplace which will sort themselves out or not. othertimes things are unbearable on every front and you're alone. now I feel lively, okay regardless, turning away from uneasiness that it could all work out for the worst.

CN's face is unreadable in the trouble. Is he blaming me? Or himself? Or just shut down and trying to sort it out? I feel that things are just happening the way they have to happen, that little can be controlled.

three weeks ago -

that I was in a shower with E. her body was young. she pushed me down to her breast unpleasantly. the rest of the dream violent but unremembered.

last night that I was in a rage, yelling and blaming until finally punching my mother in the stomach to try to make a point. then realising this wasn't right, that I'd actually punched her, had got carried away.

kestrel - windhover - windfucker

I'm revising soft shroud. I'm glad I held on to it for a while - I can see that it's unfinished.

what I meant at the ending is - the horse (the horse birthed from the egg, which was incubated in the mouth and saved from the lava flow by the upright man who held it aloft while his ankles were stripped)

the horse walks away from the empty grounds and the stagnant pool towards the peak of the mountain. the horse walks towards heat; the mountain is erupting. the lava flows away from the horse; the horse travels up the cool side of the mountain.

this side of the mountain is cool because it is the future already here. the future has its past soft on its back like cool loam and verdant moss, breaking under the hooves.

the far side of the mountain is the present, an eruption which excoriates vomits its hot self out and eats the cone, eats out its whole structure so that it crests and collapses like a wave, on the calming back of which the future has settled.

whether to believe that reflection of myself as terrifying, the unconscious destroyer. all I was doing was writing my dreams.

-what if somebody saw this? what about my partner? my livelihood? my residency status?

-but it's not real! I don't own a pair of giant centipedes!

a little shop called the unicorn