Flight can be an escaping or a running towards:

an embracing of wisdoms and new ways of being:

of seeing and loving and thinking and doing:

wonderful things;

marvellous things;

entrancing things;

dancing things.


But whilst all that’s true,

flight can also be an escaping.



Imagine my last nine curious months

had been designed not to allow me to love all over again,

or maybe that’s simply for the first time in my life,

and maybe that’s never,

and maybe that’s always,

and maybe that’s strange ways – and

who knows what

ways! –

but simply to distract me

into wanting to fly again:

a simple mechanical procedural goal:

a game played with

emotions to overcome


motions: those e-

motions that stationed one solidly and stolidly and

fiercely behind

a SOHO-ed PC and white as snow keyboard

(though knowing him well, as everyone now

does, little about his keyboard will ever be

cleanly driven …).


So was this a game to distract him with the

mirroring and

smoking of love’s curious call?

Was this a cruel indifference of many?

Was this a curious toying casually with

little boy?

Was he so clever as to actually be



The questions unreel, as they have done

all year.

The questions do peal out, as they have done

through the tears

shed profusely, in memories

of times and loves and things committed so

sadly to recalling and remembrances

passing and installing, and re-

installing – as if the hard drive of life:

the car

that zips brilliantly; that bursts into sparkling

endangering bullets of

an excitable


that circles and repeats:

points to be listed;

moments to be rained off;

disillusionments to be endured,

as little black dots that mark our

trajectory, and then finally inform us they’ve beaten us



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