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‘In a form of self-imposed isolation, miles from any chance of a satisfying social experience, the sadness was real and as beautiful and fragile as the Earth the sun will one day destroy.’

What of sharing life with strangers?  Writing is exciting because one never knows who will read it, or anyone at all!  Like a reverse voyeurism, daring to expose the self to an unseen audience.

“Write it as fiction because no one will believe it” my dad once said. I know what he means, the slippery task of contextualising the bizarre chains of events that happened and so may unusual things that keep happening to me.  I am really surprised at it all myself and in fact I can’t summon memories up that well because they’re odd and shocking and they creep up on me when I’m cleaning my teeth or something.  I’ll suddenly remember some crazy happening from years ago and it will be saying ‘Look what you did, this is who you are!’

Strangeness is truer than fiction.

Some years ago I decided to write a memoir and I’ve got about three quarters of it down and I hope to publish it later this year (2018).  You can read a snippet here.  It’s all true and life keeps happening, yeah really.

I used to keep an online reflections blog but it all just got a bit too esoteric and I nearly disappeared.

There’s two of my poems below and book of my poetry (and photos) here.

I’m also writing for Autism Dialogue.

The World

The world is not a material monster.
All of our majestic, spiritual dreams
have been realised. Unreleased.

All religions are true.
Every fibre you witness is
just a mirror to love.
All is truth.
All is truth,
Every thought.
Every turn of the earth
points to eternity.

Point to Eternity!
All is love,
every pain validates it..
There are places we will never see
In this ritual.
This ecstatic planet
in constant praise.
This theatre. This cage. This compulsion.

And here is sadness.
What are we?
Animals?
Or supreme God consciousness.
Infinite Possibilities
in One Many.

Ah, this world,
this sad, miraculous love.
Unreleased material monster.
How am I in it?
In one love,
this crying bio love machine?

______

Just about there

Just about there
But just out of reach.
A non-state, a no thought
A notion of bliss.

Between strong forked life-boughs
Barn feathers swiftly glide.
Dusk loves his wide eyed
Silent winged wisdom,  all-seeing.

Fleeting, gently teasing
Love birds nod and sing.
Above and between
and other such dualities.

Copyright J Drury 2018.  All rights reserved.

 

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