A Koppaberg spirit catches the eye in the supermarket where mediocrity melts into boundless space. Can this strange bottle, filled with the hemlock of my old fading life, resurface some kind of genuine hope? It basks in the steady, overbright lights: drink me, it says, wordlessly, as my lips tiptoe to its frothing nothingness, promising sunlight in an unlamped room.
Dreamt:
Scene: I was in Oxford.
Friend: Everything is so business-like, as if it was made-to-order.
I looked out of the shop we were in. It seemed a half-Canley, half-Malaysian small town, with touches of course, but it certainly wasn't Oxford-Oxford.
I was somehow half-naked. There was a broken down bus across the street. I scanned the windows to see if anyone cared to look at me before the bus restarted and drove away. No one did.
I was in an online forum, and was impressed by Barnett's writings.
Scene: Bungalow
My dad had me wait for an hour in a large house as he ran on an errand to pass a friend a $75 handphone handset. I suppose we drove there, for the errand involved walking through a forest fronting the house. He appeared tired as he returned, and it seemed nonsensical to walk, when one could have taken a bus, or a cab. He was fully enthused and occupied in the fact that it was a $75 handset, even when my mother was there and expected more.
--
I sit in the maze of books.
One needs no compass here,
for she lies beyond the unstirred page,
approaching on a narrative tide,
smoothing a crease she ran across,
in the richness of her ocean-satin dress.
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