Yes, I know – I’m a terrible blogger. I did say somewhere that I find the idea  and the execution of keeping a journal unnatural. If you see a diary writer, well I’m the person farthest from them. Anyhow, here’s a piece of free-form I dreamt up.


Scent is a powerful memory trigger

There’s no doubt about that

Red Door, elevated above all other

She walks past, and my mind reverses

To an office building in the nineties

A carefree time, a moneyed time

She wanted to be my counsellor

But who counsels the counsellors?

The ancestry reeked of Old Europe

One who could launch ships with a glance

So spake the legend, writ in water

In the end, we never even got on a boat

Yet we were a grand pair

Neither of us right or solid in the head

We talk, we talk, we talk, husky breathing

Two damaged souls groping for solace

Scream and rage, immature anger, Asperger’s stricken

But I wander close and there’s Red Door

Oh, how I want to be invited in

Friends with benefits, pre-meme, pre-trope

One evening I found a way

Not a well-travelled road, not even a path to follow

Trough and crest, peak and valley

That’s how that road was trodden

The highest high you are to me

But I don’t want to think about the lowest low

I made vows and compacts, half-spoken promises

Still that Red Door was closed

Even if I had unlocked it

It could never last, not even in semi-permanence

Doom, fate, karma, name it at will

It fled over the horizon, and the Red Door slammed shut