Retina Scan

In Trajectories.

Something Differently the Same.

…some unusual images

associate themselves with sensations such as “the smell of a lemon”, sun on warm grass.

She woke up wondering about the existence which she had easily come to call dreams..

Remember the first time you realised you had forgotten a complete idea?

Cool waves echoing about a marble columned lobby.

Something lurking,

a machine sits, solid, surrounded by fog

… at the back of the mind.

…the waters of the river lift, then submerge the grass alongside its banks.

A flood races towards her shady spot under the tree.

She does not wake immediately and the cool metal of the water clamps to the back of her brain, shaping, cutting out the edges of her dream.

The steady panic of productivity…..

The old man watched the young one on the rocks.

Watched his silhouette in the darkness,

a thin and frail outgrowth, slightly taller than the others.

Still life set and alone.

His eyes glazed, locked to thoughts sinking

further and further towards the bottom.

Waves lapping. Cool dark salt air.

Pictures and stories of fear, rejection, malice, exaggerate themselves there.

Frozen, dispersed, to be studied like a museum display.

Amongst these move the living- uninvolved, laughing and curious, amazed.

Over what, gravity wonders into a full stop.


Sinking into smooth sand,

Cool misty rain on a warm face.


The waters calm like a crystal, lapping time,

Time to wonder.

The old man wondered if the young one would notice the new sun charge the sea,

fuse colour into the horizon,

send its change breeze across the bay,

ruffling feathers.

But other things invade.

Thoughts interrupted because they have nowhere to go.

The dark walls inside, which your mind refuses to look beyond, move you to see clearly within a contained perspective where contemplation has lost its relevance, reduced to a pinprick.

With light the young man would see the sameness of his days laid bare.

Pink and grey plush deadlines,

the steady panic of productivity

dressed in designer comfort.

Yesterdays demon possessed todays son,

looking for a face in the crowd, a friend in a stranger, love in a capsule,

looking at life in a concrete box ten stories off the ground;

staring from polaroid goldfish bowls

at a crowd poisoned frenetic with affluent effluent.

If he would just look back at the old face of the stranger who looks upon him and remembers.

But the old are ghosts who wander unseen inside barnacled relics

soon to lie down on an atomic beach at the S.enior C.itizens R.ecycling clinic …to become ion filings.

As he got closer to the other end of the bay the young man kicked a piece of seaweed and looked back up at the old ramshackled house almost completely woven now into the bush on the hill. Then he continued until he reached his designer cyber-cellular.

“Traces of Familiarity Curved Artistically Around Cold Pockets of Opulent Panic”.

He shivered and headed for the CD player.

Steady rhythmic bass sounds filled the gaps,

he felt his heart beat, strengthen, reviving, priming his body

until it launched with the lead guitar into hyper.

When his wife appeared against the kitchen door he was bright eyed and bushy tailed blasting the juice out of oranges, ready atomic arteries and flushed cheeks to extol the virtues of an early morning walk on the beach.

She posted herself automode to compiling breakfast

while his thoughts morphed, rhythmic, ‘base’,

into his on-top-of-every-move new P.A,

in the shower

She now felt relief when he left each day, even more when it was for a few days.

Apart from a momentary trickle-of-loss into her stomach, a tiny momento from some other age, the air between them was spun solid, leaving no room for ragged edges to intrude.

She did not even have to pretend to miss him

or anticipate his return,

he had removed those types of expectations from her agenda.

She went upstairs to dress the kids.

They all stood together at the door for the

“goodbye hug” before he

“must fly”ed off with brief case

and jacket wings.

The kids wandered from the doorway out onto the sand.

She sat down with them to play.

The sun turned warm, the sea glazed and rippled.

The children scrambled to their feet and rushed towards a puppy tossing its way amongst a pile of seaweed.

Bits and pieces of sound detached and unattached, colours tumbling in and out, warm and soft life moving shapes and lines.

A moment of children and puppy set in seaweed shells and sand.

…she smiled at the girl who had sat down beside her.

Eyes dark warm, for the arms of a friend.

Wispy threads, gentle, delicate,

Like brush strokes,

Teasing an image through time…

…shivering, pulling the manuscript close to her she ran back through the trees, over the fence,

(dark cold clouds pressing against her face, empty, unaddressed, floating, solid, mercurial, washing, sliding over the rocks below).

…clouds moved across the glass table next to the cell window,

moved across the sky.

Tide turn and change breeze.

Cold wept in and she closed a window, then another and packed some bags, and closed the door.

Feet sinking in the sand in the dark, children dragging back her arms. She lead her caravan to the hill. Smoke began to rise from amongst the houses on the beach. In time flames burst through. Bloomed red-orange. The children and their mother stopped, at the edge of the cliff, and turned to watch the fire.

She took some deep breaths to steady herself. Purpose seemed to be echoing its way through the night, screaming past them on its way to somewhere. She walked into its wake.

The Old Man’s house was a bit of a wreck.

Piles of paper everywhere which she wasn’t allowed to touch, dead curtains hung stiff with grime across blurred windows. The puppy had tumbled the orderly back shed overnight into chaos. Carefully sorted seeds now sown amongst scatterings of potting mix scrambled with string and old paper.

Past the puppy playground, silent in a shroud of light, slowly presented itself shyly, a special place.

Behind the growing tools. An old window, a desk, a chair.

On the floor alongside, an old grey coarse woolen blanket and some raggy cushions.

Here the puppy was nestled.

He had found his ghost beside hers.

Worn wood and sweat, rosettes curled into its curves.

She sat in the chair

To think,

About nothing happening, except relatively I suppose,

Relative to any variation on the same theme.

Dispersed and lazy.

Walk through the brown leaves

Browner than any Autumn ever,

Suspended, the autumn before something different happens.

Very long and very dry.

Wrinkled swollen leaves, scurries of insects

Beings like me between here and there.

No wind though, or stems pushing through,

Nothing new.

Everything stopped. Waiting in Autumn.

There was an old fashioned ink pen set with a bottle and a well stained green. There was a drawer full of different kinds of paper, then a smaller one with notebooks. Plain, card-covered, shiny dark blue.

5. Collections of thoughts set out like Headings.

Leading to words never quite seeming to capture…

each stroke each line drawing around the edges…


Like a lost magic pathway…

…where colour lies about form, form about lines

shapes are rainbow edged yawns of time.

Ghosts with smiles that invade your being

…those eyes which flick shadows.

… To carefully climb over barbed wire fences,

finding the gaps,

jumping down into soft beds of summer grass,

strolling along the top of the cliff

to find a spot to sit and lie.

And look out at the ocean.

The great vacuous roar, buzzing machines, electronic noise, sattelite static seem extraneous to the quiet green and blue motion of this bed where tiny insects stroke, where your senses meet the sky.

A view of truth amongst pictures and stories whose riddles have dissolved into time.

A jigsaw of images and stamps, words, petrified voices, pieces of something.

A tune smashed into bits of noise.

Change always like a kaleidescope,

perfectly formed patterns and edges that you can’t touch.

Shaded under the tree.

Soft inside a capsule traveling through night

Outside time is to see its plaits and spirals

its fusions of similar experiences,

conjunctions, cross roads, wrong paths, mistakes

compiling themselves like iron filings gathered about the tip of a magnet.

Unconnected words thrown onto a page, gathered into sticky bunches of type.


Yet within these constructs of time can be seen its spaces,

like orbs reflecting …

Leaves falling, empty

Scattered, light

Fading into the lines

Of an old woman

Who turns her face

To welcome the rain.

Form Leaves and Function Reforms.

Wherever Pithar lived, there grew trees,

cool and damp ferns, streams

and waterfalls.

The air very soft and soothing to the mind.

Diora, whom Pithar loved

however much her light laid bare the detail of his brushstrokes,

especially because she was the most fiery of the elements,

found his home soothing.

This was in a time between the sweeping in of the swirling voids

Which stalk the universe.

Before the Inaneimages appeared…

*Vericles the Versimilitude*

*a new visitor to the net.*

his history of back doors, and black holes.

Once upon a time there was a community where babies could only be conceived when two particular planets in their universe eclipsed, only then were the electromagnetic conditions for melding with the environment stable enough. Otherwise the babies would die in the womb or be born grotesquely allergic to the very atmosphere of their existance.

Their science became as a laser, focused entirely upon the genetics of survival. Pre-determined by the culture of their previous civilisation the people ventured to rebuild exactly the same in a different form.

Vericles their scientist reminded them about …beware . If the species redefines by exclusion there will be nothing further to differentiate.. .

A collective unconcious black hole.

Factors designed for survival became the device, in more abundant times, by which some leaders moved towards ideas of control. They saw the benefits of the science of groups of unified minds, whose nucleus lay in their hands.

Yung turned, re- programmed, and clinically applied.

… there is no sense in exploring the swirling mists of time, the random place where form lies about lines, where variations grow, striate and leave, to create something new.

Not when voidition squads are bursting into the stratosphere and erasing the entire exitance of ‘deviance — pathways’ the name of ?The… Anyway, we were in-between-voids of those swirling mists of time.

Remember Shangri-La.

Ice maidens born about mountain streams and marble columned houses of learning. The gardens of romantic historians.

But chiseled perfection is soul-less and inevitably the dark and blurred mysterious, because it is fascinating in its difference, invites a new-edenous coupling,..

The last in-between period of the swirling mists of time.

At night Diora became distant, her presence reduced, washing the outer regions of Dithars world.

Leaving him to darkness and moss dew,

Bathing his wounds in seclusion.

Iconic behaviours remoulded as the generations passed. The messengers of folk lore.

But voidition squads hover and virtuality is blatantly re-writing the psychic existence of an entire world. Fiction in control mode. Stripped down, naked, a lean machine, at its most flagrant and grotesque. There is only one dream and it is not yours.

“In the train, December 1, 1921! My dreams crushed, my faith broken, my heart like a stone. Matushka Rossiya bleeding from a thousand wounds, her soil strewn with the dead.

I clutch the bar at the frozen window pane and grit my teeth to suppress my sobs.” “Not only Sasha, but also the other comrades who had formerly defended the Communist methods as inevitable in a revolutionary period, had at last been forced to see the abyss between ‘October’ and the dictatorship..”

Emma Goldman.

What does an entity lack that it becomes obsessed with its own power over others.

A child hidden behind the edges of the crowd watches the man with his minders stride down the street.

Nice smiles. Cut. Like. Knives.

Line the pathway.

Standing backs all in a row.

Alienation at the helm.

She wondered why “he” was the autoresponse to her thoughts about power and control.

Afterall, subtly, we all hold our portion, create our own ‘areas of interest’ within those allocated-with-which-the-battle-to-break-free-is-interminable. Crafting new language symbols … to subtly attack your brain platelets’

with showers of iron filings

/////////////////////////At work on the screen\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\.

Language lost to broken down words, functional bytes, txts. Devoid of nuance, the soft meanderings of thoughts, imaginings, its fanciful pathways roadblocked. The magic… gone. This mechanical data stream of words stifles and destroys the living breathing soul.

Human voice, what is the human voice

Away from its market exponents,

In the desert silence or the oceans rhythm.

Tumbleweeds, salt spray and sand.

Where the voice within feels its place in time…

…and mind travel sets in like an illness

She wandered back up to the old house and up the stairs into the old man’s study. On the edge of his desk next to the window sat an oil lamp. Through the window was a view of the entire bay.

From this window you might have seen the canoes of Tainui first appear in the harbour.

You might have seen Rangitoto rise out of the ocean

filling the sky with fire.

He sat there happily surrounded by worlds of silent voices.

Hundreds of voices poised, ready to speak, lining the shelves.

He didn’t turn around. She stood there for a moment then carried the folder she wanted back downstairs to the shed.

She turned to the last page in the folder

The Ancient Tarot of Marseilles

there are three times in a person’s year when they can control the outcome of external events in which they participated.

- there are two times when they can not — for some these two times means a negative experience

Verciles carefully places a few tiny strands amongst the weave.

Nodules on a chromosome, pass un-noticed like spores through a mask.

· Experiences having the same rate of vibration will fuse”.

Susan Hiller-Painter

N Gemini 6000BC Mercury Birth of Duality

Beginning of written language

Verciles code. The Birth Of Venus

While she had been without colour or dimension, held within,

she knew more clearly than it, what the monster was about.

She had felt its internal screams,

its whirring and clicking,

its iron colour, and purpose, locking into its own shapes and bands,

around the stuff of which she was.

Its arrogant growth,

her future world, relied upon her quiet sustaining presence.

The nucleus from which it drew its form.

Not until the strands had woven their way slowly

across the face of time would the frame invert.

Then, her rhythms,

her colours,

her dimensions

would bleed into the mirror of the Lake,

the quiet and gentle invasion of sunrise.

The new sun charged the sea,

fused colour into the horizon,

sent its change breeze across the bay,

ruffling feathers …

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