catharsis the tugboat

he spent a week carving his head out of sandstone, scuffing his knuckles and quelling the raw peaks with sand. he hired a boat. he dropped the head in the north sea. it sank. it sounded good. he felt good.

the saddest and happiest things

my hands were cold, i took out my gloves folded together, they had been through the wash, you laughed and cried at the same time. it was pretty intense

12" - 5.5" - 4.1"

gliding through soft brittle water; it is a tuesday.
rolling through bending air.

lost.

sucking a lung full of air and opening one eye in time to see a blurred arc of image before the world melts.

trees bleed into the sky, edges relaxing.

it was all they could do to keep going.

beautiful beautiful boxes

a warm affection, boxes, small printed cardboard boxes, boxes for screws and boxes for light bulbs, tessellating patterns, Kodachrome prints, functional, beautiful, empty boxes.

Mr Adam Adams Smith is not my friend or yours

I have a new email address!

You can now email me at: adamssmith54@yahoo.co.nz

- Dear friend, I crave your indulgence for the unsolicited nature of this letter, but it was borne out of desperation and current development. Please bear with me. My name is Mr.Adams an auditor of BOA Bank (B.O.A) I discovered existing dormant account for 5years. I seek your consent to present yourself as the next of kin of the deceased. As an auditor in the bank I will use my position in the bank to help you stand as the next of kin to the deceased, so that the proceeds of this account valued at $15million dollars can be transferred to you, this is the story in a nutshell. Now I want an account over seas where the bank will transfer this fund. Now my questions are:- 1. Can you handle this project?.. 2. Can I give you this trust?..If yes, respond as soon as possible to enable me give you the full details.Mr. Adams Smith

Everybody gets these letters, everybody ignores them, i hope. But there is something about these fluorescent traps with their emotionally loaded content, seemingly innocent questioning and their $15 million dollars that commands my attention.

Dear Mr Adams
Mr Adam Adams i see you are in some kind of a pickle. But I'm in a far deeper emotional hole, someone i may have called family has died, but you have not been kind enough to grace me with the name of this long lost relative. I feel hurt and or confused. The nutshell wasn't really helpful nor summed anything up. Adam i don't think i can really handle this project, emotionally, physically, conceptually the whole thing sounds pretty intense. I'm sorry Adam i just feel, well, I'm 24. Maybe if i was 25 i would be better equipped to handle this kind of thing. Trust me with what Adam? $15 million dollars? Not to shave my hair off when i discover i had a distant Kiwi auntie who has just passed away before she could tell me I'm an OK guy? This has all come as a bit of a shock Adam. Please take my words with humble appreciation as i feel less than sure about this whole thing, nor your appearance in this accompanying body shot, i mean sure this may be documentation of some semi-religious experience, but aren't you, well, over sharing a touch? i think you should probably keep the $15 million dollars for yourself, or give it to some obscure animal charity, or buy some new long johns, i mean that bag on your head could be made of 200 year old elk leather, or plastic, hell you could buy some cattle or something or a diamond baby. Look you can obviously see i wouldn't know where to begin with that kind of money. I'm so sorry Adam. Good luck. Clean yourself up though lad, you look pretty rough. Drink more water.

Yours regretfully
Mr Ben Jeans Houghton

some things are complicated

the golden egg

surrounded by the walls of a golden ceramic egg,
the light inside cannot penetrate the dark that surrounds it.
its form immaculately split in two, it is closing,
unstoppable inevitable separation from all and everyone i love,
never again to see anything.
never closed but forever closing. unbearable. that morning i dream of
my mother,
caring, tolerant, and self sufficient.
in the dream her guard has been left aside.

a rickety bridge spans low and thin across bayou like water,
green, swamped with algae,
we talk, about what i cant remember,
she walks away as if in a foot note to the main dream,
carrying a catherine cookson novel.

glancing over my right shoulder
in time to see her stamp through the knee high water;
it looks and moves like green quick sand.

she has decided to do this
she has assessed the bridge as to damp and slippery,
the water was the safer bet,
especially as she wore her wood and cork clogs,
the ones she loved. she sported a triangle of beige shorts
and an old turquoise t-shirt i had seen from photos
from around the time i was born.

her perm was back.
warm, damp light flooded this scene,
a little too calm.