It’s too early to go anywhere, 4 am and its my birthday.
Reading Shuntaro Tanikawa has made me smile and my eyes sting.
He smooths me.
But for sure my birthday is not for me, it is for the person who bore me.
A time to thank her and my dad and all my ancestors for conspiring
to bring me forth. To thank them for setting me on my journey.
53 years counted.
My stomach boils in the porridge I have just eaten. Too early to digest.
I drink more luke warm water, but the bubbling remains.
I feel so old and frail when my back goes out of joint,
when my hips seize up again, when I walk again like a duck.
To be woken by pain in my pelvis and my groin, is no worse or better
than to arise to the trill of my alarm clock, or to the plaintive calls of the gulls
on the roof. It is just another categorising thought another blurred sorting out
In the randomness of life.
And yet it feels much much worse than that.
I drink more pre-boiled water and ask it to tell me the names of
the other people it has passed through.
If I laid a book at your table and if it comprised entirely
of untouched, unblemished paper, would that give you
enough space to pause and ponder the inexpressible.
Or would you dismiss this as a gimmick?
I have a book upstairs whose cover is made of rough tree bark,
whose pages are finely sliced cork. Each page exposes the uniqueness of grain
and organic blemish of that cork cut, that’s all.
I can sit and read these pages and become content.
I can feel touched in the touching of their wonder within.
When I am tired the very same book dissolves into jus another
sales persons clever gimmick.
I am tired and I do need to need to stop.
To stop and sink into the growing light.
To let go into the spaciousness