Remembering someone I knew a long, long time ago, when I was young, in another city in another state in another country in another universe. Somewhere. Else. You
are the gauge against which I measure all my temperatures, the rope with
which I bind up my hands. Sometimes I want just to slip into another skin, to
remake myself, to lighten my step. When I think of you I smile’.
You are the gauge
You are the gauge
against which I measure
all my temperatures
the rope with which I bind up my hands
Returning to light
the voice on an unexpected phone message
the eye that scans a hasty letter
tall and smiling, your face darkening
at some brief thought
my love oozes out through cracks in my skin
like thick black underground oil
I look out for you
tall and smiling, your face darkening
at some brief thought
my love oozes out through cracks in my skin
like thick black underground oil
I look out for you
when I think of you
I smile
Returning to light
Your eyes closed against the midday sun
making brightness dark
light, hot on my back
Your eyes closed against the midday sun
making brightness dark
light, hot on my back
a sun which lights up everything
I've lived my life in darkness far too long
looking for lost and broken objects in the half-light
of dingy inner-city flats
my windows brighten at the end of day
I focus on distance
develop a sense of perspective
a long depth of field
swimming up
away from the dark
returning to light
Like a distant friend overseas
Like a distant friend overseas
trying to maintain a closeness between pauses
set out in letters and coffee shop conversations
a pen pal from another world
a long-distance friendship
arranging our respective affairs
for our long-term mutual
survival
you have seen me at my worst
and best
I cry like a wounded animal
emptying out my scarred heart with steel shovels
slicing through soft, bruised flesh
a quarter of a lifetime
cut out like a cancer
gone, like still water evaporated in the sun
like the feet's memory of a dance step
Walking into friesias
Walking into friesias
home from 27 degree heat somewhere north
into freezing cold, the city in winter
I sit on a plane, flying back from somewhere
watching a really sad movie
hiding my face in the bright window
likely to blurt out my life story
to a complete stranger
I told you my story
for the first time didn't hide my face
discovered finally
how to live my life in capital letters
the closeness that saves you from yourself
I wonder why finally
all the clocks in my tiny flat
show the same time
I can't let it go
friendship, not so far from love
denies reason
wriggles out of reach
like a ticklish child
If something happened to your sudden smile
If something happened to your sudden smile
if I no longer saw your face
I would cry for a year
If I no longer sat across from you
screwing up your face
over the steam of hot coffee
as you recited the tribulations of your day
a part of me would die as well
My laugh would be much sadder
flowers would no longer wake me
smelling sweet at dawn
I would read but not understand
listen but not hear
watch but not see
not taste the most unusual food
nor smell the most remarkable perfume
and I would speak without being understood
words no longer making sense
with part of me cut off
with my senses shrunk to pinpricks
only the end, without the beginning
I watch your skin glisten
I've lived my life in darkness far too long
looking for lost and broken objects in the half-light
of dingy inner-city flats
my windows brighten at the end of day
I focus on distance
develop a sense of perspective
a long depth of field
swimming up
away from the dark
returning to light
Like a distant friend overseas
Like a distant friend overseas
trying to maintain a closeness between pauses
set out in letters and coffee shop conversations
a pen pal from another world
a long-distance friendship
arranging our respective affairs
for our long-term mutual
survival
you have seen me at my worst
and best
I cry like a wounded animal
emptying out my scarred heart with steel shovels
slicing through soft, bruised flesh
a quarter of a lifetime
cut out like a cancer
gone, like still water evaporated in the sun
like the feet's memory of a dance step
Walking into friesias
Walking into friesias
home from 27 degree heat somewhere north
into freezing cold, the city in winter
I sit on a plane, flying back from somewhere
watching a really sad movie
hiding my face in the bright window
likely to blurt out my life story
to a complete stranger
I told you my story
for the first time didn't hide my face
discovered finally
how to live my life in capital letters
the closeness that saves you from yourself
I wonder why finally
all the clocks in my tiny flat
show the same time
I can't let it go
friendship, not so far from love
denies reason
wriggles out of reach
like a ticklish child
If something happened to your sudden smile
If something happened to your sudden smile
if I no longer saw your face
I would cry for a year
If I no longer sat across from you
screwing up your face
over the steam of hot coffee
as you recited the tribulations of your day
a part of me would die as well
My laugh would be much sadder
flowers would no longer wake me
smelling sweet at dawn
I would read but not understand
listen but not hear
watch but not see
not taste the most unusual food
nor smell the most remarkable perfume
and I would speak without being understood
words no longer making sense
with part of me cut off
with my senses shrunk to pinpricks
only the end, without the beginning
I watch your skin glisten
Thinking of you naked
on my bed
calms my most severe fears
quietens me, like a breast-fed baby
I watch your skin glisten
catch the quick light
from a flung-open window
hear dogs howl incessantly
along the lane
like the long, exhausted history of my life
barking backwards and forwards in my head
I can see your distant eyes darken
as the day detours into night
juggling the many pieces of your life
like unsteady glasses on a tray
you brighten
like all-night dance parties
like stretching coral beaches at dawn
like gleaming beginnings
You make me spin
You make me spin
pose questions to myself
I make myself go
with your wild passing whims
push myself
beyond the borders of my history
face to face
we walk along parallel lines
speaking, in a public park
a string of words
like a lifeline
pulling us in
through edgy breakers
wrapping me, like blankets, against your heart
‘talk to me‘
you said
I laid my head next to yours
and talked endlessly
feeling your hair
touch my face
and everything else I had
worth anything
I wanted to be close
feeling the presence of someone
who could reach through layers of clothes
through skin
through history
and make me want to dance
If you choose to forget
If you choose to forget
a sip from the icy waters of the river Lethe
will still your mind
what to remember
what to forget
lies, promises and self-deceptions
forget names and dates, remember the taste in your mouth?
midnight purple irises spiral in the disappearing light
sometimes I want just to slip into another skin
to remake myself
to lighten my step
dreams of perfection
an over-committed heart
© Stephen Cassidy, 2010
For more information about the writer see Writing biography.
See also
State of origin
Multimedia piece developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, State of origin looked at where we come from, where we go next and where we truly belong. In this work the writer and visual artist combined word, image and computer technology to make visual music. Words and images moved across the computer screen, with no fixed address, State of origin.
The lost art of conversation
Installation, developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, on words, meaning, reflection and infinite (or at least, partial) regression. Three tall thin vertical mirrors stand against the wall, covered in bursts of words. Three matching paper shadows flow out from the wall along the floor. Words on the mirrors flutter and blur into shadows, The lost art of conversation.
balloon
A fictional narrative work in the form of a website, the website as writing. About the adventures of a refugee from the big city who sets up the High Country Thought Balloon Company. A series of brief vignettes about the characters, situations and stories which intersect the path of the balloons as they soar across the skies of the Southern Tablelands and Snowy region. It is about changing perspective, balloon.
Malacoota Inlet
‘Shutdown in a flat, wet land, the line beween sea and sky where grey meets grey, where stricken yachts come in’, Malacoota Inlet.
Sitting on twigs
‘Sitting on twigs in the flat lands, in a piece of country loaded with meaning, like a tightly coiled spring’, Sitting on twigs.
Signature of water
A series of artworks as part of the Waterworks exhibition at Goulburn Regional Art Gallery responding to the shared task of facing up to life on our dry continent. It ranged from short, minimalist animations, using cartoons, to hyperfiction drawing on the styles of crime novels. It was a mix of poetry, storytelling, images and sounds which were heavily influenced by the styles of popular culture and the urban and rural landscapes around us, Signature of water.
on my bed
calms my most severe fears
quietens me, like a breast-fed baby
I watch your skin glisten
catch the quick light
from a flung-open window
hear dogs howl incessantly
along the lane
like the long, exhausted history of my life
barking backwards and forwards in my head
I can see your distant eyes darken
as the day detours into night
juggling the many pieces of your life
like unsteady glasses on a tray
you brighten
like all-night dance parties
like stretching coral beaches at dawn
like gleaming beginnings
You make me spin
You make me spin
pose questions to myself
I make myself go
with your wild passing whims
push myself
beyond the borders of my history
face to face
we walk along parallel lines
speaking, in a public park
a string of words
like a lifeline
pulling us in
through edgy breakers
wrapping me, like blankets, against your heart
‘talk to me‘
you said
I laid my head next to yours
and talked endlessly
feeling your hair
touch my face
and everything else I had
worth anything
I wanted to be close
feeling the presence of someone
who could reach through layers of clothes
through skin
through history
and make me want to dance
If you choose to forget
If you choose to forget
a sip from the icy waters of the river Lethe
will still your mind
what to remember
what to forget
lies, promises and self-deceptions
forget names and dates, remember the taste in your mouth?
midnight purple irises spiral in the disappearing light
sometimes I want just to slip into another skin
to remake myself
to lighten my step
dreams of perfection
an over-committed heart
© Stephen Cassidy, 2010
For more information about the writer see Writing biography.
See also
I smoke baby cigars
‘Smoking baby cigars in the dark of the backyard. Like some Cuban presidente haranguing the crowd with reminders, I proffer a list of romantic anniversaries, our May 4th movement, our July 12th uprising – our moment when everything became new’, I smoke baby cigars.
Cut back to black
‘Cut back to black, thin chill drizzle mid-winter – infinite regression on petrol’. Also called ‘Revhead heaven’, Cut back to black.
Coming back to these stones
‘Coming back to these stones – in the sandy dry reaches of the Coorong in South Australia’s South East birds flicker across the flat water like beads of run-away mercury’, Coming back to these stones.
Landscapes in a rear vision mirror
‘Heading at a moment's notice into Broken Hill, breaking several traffic laws on the Barrier Highway, in the rear vision mirror the land kept switching colours’, Landscapes in a rear vision mirror.
Stopping by Lake George
‘Lake George is a vast stretching freshwater lake, with no outlet. It is only diminished by evaporation. Many stories are told about Lake George, a still point of the turning earth, with all the quiet of the eye at the centre of a hurricane’, Stopping by Lake George.See other work from the Conversations group exhibition, Goulburn Regional Art Gallery, 2004 – a collaborative exhibition of writers and visual artists.‘Smoking baby cigars in the dark of the backyard. Like some Cuban presidente haranguing the crowd with reminders, I proffer a list of romantic anniversaries, our May 4th movement, our July 12th uprising – our moment when everything became new’, I smoke baby cigars.
Cut back to black
‘Cut back to black, thin chill drizzle mid-winter – infinite regression on petrol’. Also called ‘Revhead heaven’, Cut back to black.
Coming back to these stones
‘Coming back to these stones – in the sandy dry reaches of the Coorong in South Australia’s South East birds flicker across the flat water like beads of run-away mercury’, Coming back to these stones.
Landscapes in a rear vision mirror
‘Heading at a moment's notice into Broken Hill, breaking several traffic laws on the Barrier Highway, in the rear vision mirror the land kept switching colours’, Landscapes in a rear vision mirror.
Stopping by Lake George
State of origin
Multimedia piece developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, State of origin looked at where we come from, where we go next and where we truly belong. In this work the writer and visual artist combined word, image and computer technology to make visual music. Words and images moved across the computer screen, with no fixed address, State of origin.
The lost art of conversation
Installation, developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, on words, meaning, reflection and infinite (or at least, partial) regression. Three tall thin vertical mirrors stand against the wall, covered in bursts of words. Three matching paper shadows flow out from the wall along the floor. Words on the mirrors flutter and blur into shadows, The lost art of conversation.
balloon
A fictional narrative work in the form of a website, the website as writing. About the adventures of a refugee from the big city who sets up the High Country Thought Balloon Company. A series of brief vignettes about the characters, situations and stories which intersect the path of the balloons as they soar across the skies of the Southern Tablelands and Snowy region. It is about changing perspective, balloon.
Malacoota Inlet
‘Shutdown in a flat, wet land, the line beween sea and sky where grey meets grey, where stricken yachts come in’, Malacoota Inlet.
Sitting on twigs
‘Sitting on twigs in the flat lands, in a piece of country loaded with meaning, like a tightly coiled spring’, Sitting on twigs.
Signature of water
A series of artworks as part of the Waterworks exhibition at Goulburn Regional Art Gallery responding to the shared task of facing up to life on our dry continent. It ranged from short, minimalist animations, using cartoons, to hyperfiction drawing on the styles of crime novels. It was a mix of poetry, storytelling, images and sounds which were heavily influenced by the styles of popular culture and the urban and rural landscapes around us, Signature of water.
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