This site now acts as an archive only. For the latest news, opinion, blogs and listings on disability arts and culture visit disabilityarts.online.

Disability Arts Online

> > Gini

2013 Take Two...

The past is a rogue horse. It stands grazing harmlessly until I am so familiar with it lurking in my background that I hardly see it, until something spooks it and away it goes.
It rips through my present with heart thumping and erratic speed, flailing hooves tearing rifts in my careful togetherness. And I cannot watch it go, but must follow. And match.

We trash countless blind alleys while I attempt to nudge this snorting black nightmare closer to something solid and dependable like a wall. And the walls disappear leaking us into further unforgotten realms in a maze of blindness, déjà-vu, multiplying, each fresh nightmare waiting in the wings like the wild goose eager and ready to take its turn leading the horde; eager like the wolf, to close in with the pack.

And countless horses crowd every nook and cranny of now with indestructible past; in a mindless trample of panic, the stampede opens its maw to consume me.

My now, my tomorrow cease to exist as I pull in every morsel of energy it takes to avoid destruction.
I have learned no better way than, one by one, to outrun them.
Found no solution to the waking in physical pain, brain-dulled empty, and emotionally shot to pieces.
Day two knowing that tomorrow I can start to find someone who might be me.
I don't get there easiliy, I hate to admit how much hard work it takes. I recognise me in the words of strangers. Creative people whose web-presence might warm me like blossom in the snow. Wise and inspirational people just a click away.
Just knowing this resource exists feels empowering. Knowing, working and believing...
Believing there will be trees, and sunshine, birdsong and stars, eyes, words, and a horse grazing harmlessly in fields of wild grasses.
 
Making resolutions is something I
do not do, never do, and yet I made
this one, only to fail and failure to
explode haunts the helpless state that sees my
inner child new-born and needing only
the close warmth of a heartbeat, the haven
of arms that cradle and protect, the still
moment unjudged, unquestioned, accepted
in given love, the unconditional
hope that will be our food for this lifetime.
 

Posted by Gini, 26 January 2013

Last modified by Colin Hambrook, 27 January 2013

Where to now?

Without Con.text I hover uncertain of my direction. I feel like my bones have been picked clean and a howling gale whistles through me; it snatches everything and yet still leaves me here. Where to now? I'm working and wishing that my inspiration will take flight.

I miss my muse, I miss my heart.

Today there is nothing to say.
Slow moving marks on a blank page
say nothing yet, and nothing yet
I have been playing in vain with
big, bold charcoal and flirting with
inconsequential words: yearning.
Hiding what might be the real me
to avoid contention; bland is
the new black. I feel too broken
to make waves, but who is it I
am trying to mend with tiny
points of black ink on blank paper?
Dots that take days, weeks to reveal
faces, reveal secrets conceal
more; yet fail to clothe my gipsy
bones. Flight, the flame that consumes
me, playing with fire and finding
my way home from mistakes, without
obliterating love. Is this
flying? In these bare, heartless bones
I am yearning, aching to fly.

 

Posted by Gini, 23 January 2012

Last modified by Gini, 23 January 2012