Monday, November 28, 2011
High rise / tom cat
I listen to the wind in the high-rise blue-gum trees as they whisper messages to me in the dark. And I pray for ears to truly hear with.
I pray to hear the ancient sounds, creakings and pain messages of the earth, so that I know what to convey to the world. Cop17 begins tomorrow in my country, Durban; as climate change seems, in my immediate eyes, to convulsively ratchet up.
I wake with the extreme anxiety of the news story I'm working on; the one that's taking me out of my comfort zone and forcing me to confront both my fears and my ghosts. I don't always have confidence to be the lone voice in the wild; what if I'm wrong.
But, tonight, I believe the message in the soaring twigs, leaves, limbs and branches is that I must trust my instincts and intuition.
So it's back to the chair at my desk, putting down the words, until my backside becomes bony and beads of blood form on my forehead.
Tonight I'm heavy with the too many stories I know of too many people, that I don't have enough time-life to write down.
High rise, they begin to flow from my nostrils, earholes and the back of my throat, also from the cracks in my skull. Like the gushing overflow drain in a massive, deep seated Victorian bath designed for an ancient time when water was not an issue.
It's 3h18 am and I'm typing in the dark.