“In my house there’s a picture on the wall…”

I can never figure out the lyrics that come after that, but I really love the song… it’s definitely something about being a Rastafari cos later on the singer starts to sing, “Rasta leaf, Rasta leaf, Rasta leaf forever more”, ye’ah!

So what has that picture been telling me over the past few days, a maze of meander; bewilderment of neither here nor where the fuck am I? I think I have been slightly funk, in the sense that I almost feel drunk on the fumes of frames that flicker in my mind, the ones that tell story and story and story and story and story and story and stop.

I need to operate differently, but in many ways I do not know where or how to begin. Sometimes I grin because I feel really good, but at the same time I am frowning, drown out the voices of my misty self, becoming demystified as the mysteries start to unfurl, follow me into the digital rabbit hold on my heart that goes all the way to China. Tryna chime a tune, chew the fat, bat my eyelids, bid farewell and go to hell.

But heaven’s here, right in front of me beside myself with weary jetlagged bags under eye. I I I I I I I st st st st stutter, I really do. Yesterday I was stuttering myself crazy and I know that my lazy leafing through life these ways, they sway me here and there and shit niggah, I feel that deep deep down I have been filled with fear. Filter the feelings and follow the path of the digital rabbit hole in my heart that goes all the way to find the light and live the love. I feel like my life has been a glove that I have taken off for the first time. My living hand has grand plans of its own, groan in the morning because the sweaty skin that has lain sweltering in the sing a song of sixpence wants to heal more than a simple pocket full of rye.

When I was a kid I had a terrible stutter and a lispering to myself:

“      slow      down     betch     ,     breathe     ,     think     each     word      you      want      to      say      before      you       move      your      mouth      ,      think      the      word       and       then       think       about       where      your     tongue       needs       to       go      to       enable       you       to       say       the       words        you       just      heard       in        your       head       .       “

It’s hella dread when the trials of tributaries explored and conquered come back to beat you to a pulp. I gulp in a deep breath again and slowly I speak a languid kind of language that makes people around me believe I am normal again.

Men, many. If any man could see me now in comparison to the me I was when I was a child they would wonder how I managed to wander to where I am now. I really did have a tricky beginning. My birth parents had families of their own…

I am pretty sure they were cousins, kissing out on the start to life that most children in civilised colonies might have.

When my real parents came to find me they discovered me covered in eczema sores and dirt, in a laundry basket-case, that’s who I always have been. Today I played Frisbee and flew the damn thing right into the sea. I wanted to die of embarrassment and wet my pants like I did when I was a boy. I bid those tears goodbye. Instead I had to laugh at how absurd it is to be an adult and still dote on the inner child, wild from the lake, a Damn Native… that’s that kid again, the one with no shoes, chipped nail polish and an open heart.
I start again, from today and tomorrow and all the sorrows afterward are just my imagination running away with see the difference? Yes, I see the difference, I defer to my new self and look into the mirror that this time talks back for real. I conversed with that reflected version of self this morning.

We talked good story to each other. I really enjoy the good story I hear him walk me back to the start, stare the issue in the eye and resolve it through easy conversation. Back and forth, forward and reverse, versions of the same song but with varied pitch and roll, hold on tight, this ride is real, and it is something I know I will embrace for impact with the hard reality that really isn’t so hard anymore when I interrogate the terror-feeling that has been reeling me to near tears the pages from the book in the new flights of fancy a dance like you never danced before and ever after school me a new religion is a curse upon you are worth more than that never happened in the past is the past, focus on the future is bright ideas are there, you just have to grasp them and dreams can come true blue baby I love you never know what lies around the corner store the energy, whisper and blow…

…and there, you have something incredible in the making.

Yesterday I heard story about an elder who told a man to remember being a boy, and to embrace the things that his boyish-self loved. When he talked that story I thought to myself, “when I was a boy, what are the things that I loved?” When I was a boy I loved to imagine. When I was a boy I loved to play. When I was boy I loved to draw. When I was a boy I loved my nan. When I was a boy I loved to pretend I was a Michael Jackson. Maybe I still love those things.

And so this is who I am today.

I need to urinate, and then I am moving to another floor.

This library has great mezzanines.