Ink ( for Chrissie)

What our parents told us or what we learned or was in the water or sent down with the sun to sink into our skin (free of petrochemical protection, no sun hat) waits there like a deep subterranean vein of ink to stain us and re-stain us when our colour fades because we’ve  made corrections. It’s got its blue smudged hand up the shirt of an old Jerry G doll with its idiot grin, vacant eyes. The trick is to know the ventriloquism is limitless; the judgement of the world, our kids, our friends, ourselves is just the inky hand and the doll dressed again like some some out of work actor with costumes but no range working the part it has always worked predicated on us. When you fall or fail and hear the ha-ha-ha-told-you-so and in your mind erect in concrete reinforced with steel evidence of your essential faultiness, it is just the puffed up blousoned wind of the past confusing your senses. Do not believe what you hear or see of yourself only construct in words you have fashioned for yourself a monument to your own good faith, your efforts to be better than your conditioning suggests for you. In my mind’s eye, I saw a girl running on a beach her arms outstretched to catch the moment and when she turned the sun had coloured her golden and I knew that it was you. Keep building your perfect castles little one in spite of the tide, the limitations of the tools and the unwieldy medium.


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