1001 Nights Glorious Memories

This sense of relief is less release of pressure than
disbelief only eleven months elapsed between an
admission and an ending. Somewhere a concrete
reality turned into a dream; there is still an echo
of the words written saying “I believe in failure as
a man making guesses at a future far less assured
than the life he lived already – I’m here because I
am unsure whether I see a sinecure playing fancy-
free”. The journey wasn’t troubled inordinately, a
long and often boring trip from dawn ‘til dusk, an
admission much of what I read was less sustaining
than the air we breathe – demeaning of a logic we
attribute more than we get because we’ve needs
which colour what we think or see. I ate the seeds
spread in my youth – it is too late to influence the
patterns but icons of my adolescence re-emerged
in voices; Mike Fanniesson, Ted Sheridan & James
(Metamorphhh) Crawford to name a few new, old -
World Americans; the babes were there to aid the
trip – Susan jane Goldner, Nick Gaudio, and infant
Ben Paynter – hey, did I mention Susan Fowler or
Val Moorehouse or a chorus of more-or-less great
painters in words before I left to bless Jim Hogg, a
fabulous Scot unrecognised as yet, or Frank JR Jnr
with whom I traded envy. Then Tara McH, & Anna
Russell, Gwen Mooney and Helen Humber Girl. Of
course the list is endless Franchesca, but guess if
you need why I had to mention you. If I never said
another word I’d feel ashamed and prove the lie
to poesy. It is community – & we Australians know
what isolation is – Allison Cassidy & Jerry Hughes,
AJS in whatever alias he used today, and me, IDC
who tried to breach the walls. If there is a truth I
think you’ll find it in the words of august Yoonoos;
sure, recent events make Poemhunter more a Hell
of Infamy than Hall of Fame, but blame yourselves!
Don’t listen to or play the Mumbai moron’s games.
© 12 December 2007, I. D. Carswell