tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59083222077212946362011-07-30T21:32:47.967-07:00A Writer is no more than a professional thinker. I'm inconsistent in everything beyond thinking.jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.comBlogger231100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-84332480034964816732010-04-27T06:46:00.000-07:002010-04-27T07:26:07.585-07:00

Always, I find it a struggle to be where I am. It's difficult to get the rest my body needs, in the places where it sleeps. The people I see exacerbate a certain anxiety that I cannot understand. And the time I spend, at their leisure, it makes for a disposition I haven't the words to express.I neglect myself. I don't truly see myself as needing help. And my hideous piety lends itself to thinking

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-40561048770585923082010-03-11T14:54:00.001-08:002010-03-12T04:19:58.799-08:00

Dear Everybody,Come and find me where I'd like to be. Amid mid-suburbia, in a floating street. A house boat. In a convoy. Buoyant Bricks and Mortar.I'll be draped in crisp linen,A tapered, straight necked, blue and white striped shirt.Standing under a not yet risen sun.I will draw out my days,On off-white, pulpy paper,In black ink and even strokes.The neighbours are never the same,but we like

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-48882955045243512502009-12-03T05:39:00.000-08:002009-12-03T06:06:58.299-08:00

I've spent a lot of my time on earth trying;Trying to find new solutions to old problems.Trying to make friends and fit in.Trying not to make the wrong decision.Trying not to upset anyone.Trying to do the right thing.Trying to please God and man.Trying not to say the wrong thing.But I'm not going to lie, I'm a little tired. Recently, but all to late, I've come to the understanding that I'm

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-57392812039763660882009-10-02T06:42:00.000-07:002009-10-08T03:19:45.282-07:00

<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-AU X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-42937391282202586242009-09-28T05:44:00.000-07:002009-09-28T07:00:33.716-07:00

In the corner, sat a young man, now old, playing an acoustic guitar;It was the first time he'd touched it in many years.As he fumbled around some simple progressions, recalling all he could remember,his eyes became full of sadness. He had to pause.It was as though all of his time came rolling upon him,He held back, trying to stop himself falling into memory.He was, again, in a moment of youth.

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-85747409214884852172009-08-20T00:31:00.000-07:002009-08-20T01:44:20.649-07:00

From Broken Bay to Palm beach, there are four million reasons to love Sydney. If you get up early enough, you'll see the mist and the moment it catches the morning's sun, enveloping everything in a golden blanket that spans from The Blue Mountains to Bronte. Light bounces between blue skies, trees and the pavement. You'll catch the garbos doing their morning rounds. The air is crisp and fresh.

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-31874769956347402132009-07-13T05:21:00.000-07:002009-07-13T05:47:06.697-07:00

The Issue of the Visa,It left them both divided,Hearts in foreign lands,They often call for home,Youth in Love, plagued with rationality,illusionary power created by morality and faith,It crushed them in their closeness,dark-time slowed in moments,acoustic beats played by rainand windscreen wipers,Not ready for collision,two hands separate, drifting in distant air,The other two are 

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-5635864468373075762009-06-06T08:15:00.000-07:002009-06-09T16:59:16.387-07:00

Driving at night, lights from the road cast long & drawn out silhouettes across the upholstered roof of Dad's van. This is a beautiful moment. Behind the wheel, I feel the grit of the steering column with each subtle turn. I cruise along the bends with life under my palms.It's not an ideal vehicle, but it's full of endless nostalgia. There is sand wedged into every inch of stitching in its seats.

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-69936257886951108952009-05-07T08:06:00.000-07:002009-05-09T06:52:32.738-07:00

From one plane, I got into another. All in the name of "Seeing the World" and "Hearing the sounds of the roaring globe". I started in Sydney and got on a plane to London."2 years", I told myslef.I was going to feel the weight of sandstone and history. See the art and architecture. Be wet with rain. Go dance in indie-clubs and listen to the next big (but currently unknown) band. I went to discover

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-41386759413881590372009-04-05T22:10:00.000-07:002009-04-06T04:49:47.058-07:00

What if it just so happened that there should be a river underground?Beneath this city, flowing out into the sea. It's a secret and only you and I know.We could be done with this place. Would you hold my hand as we jumped through a trap door, leading us to an intricate system of pipe lines.We hold a map and a torch. Even though the smell of the cavern is dank and the sound of an echoing drip boom

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-6159115063768074562009-03-25T14:54:00.001-07:002009-03-26T00:10:42.310-07:00

What our Grandfathers knew in their heads, our fathers believed in their hearts. So, they fought for ground and began building a new city for their children.As their Fathers saw what was being built, their hearts turned toward the Son's and began to dream. They where now building with them. We grew up in the city. Bold and bright. Safe and sound. Protected and loved. Though, it was impossible to

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-72659905366379852122009-02-24T19:20:00.000-08:002009-02-24T19:51:44.186-08:00

or 'Go visit Jeppedo'A title by Kendle SargeantA story by j. f. hawkins.Fussing around in her Kitchen, she was a tyrant, but a comforting sight. You knew you were home when you were sitting at the dining room table, awkwardly awaiting the arrival of a full English Breakfast – the one you told her she didn’t have to make, but she did anyway. She always had to make a big fuss over you. It was as

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-1455489716368539832009-02-22T20:21:00.000-08:002009-02-22T20:51:57.410-08:00

I've been doing temp work in a nice office. By all means, it's exactly as an office should be. It's clean, and smells clean; each night a small troop of (allegedly) legal immigrants sweep through the building restoring order- like gnomes of the world 'mise en place'. It has air-conditioning (literally set to 'Office Temp'). Its lights are not so bright as to offend, nor dim enough to give a

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-27712888497844169962009-02-22T14:32:00.000-08:002009-02-22T15:13:58.950-08:00

Tell me of the world and time gone by,Ever so slowly,but densely important,More than just space and time,I want to hear the thoughts you set into orbit,Flying through the air you occupy,The sights and memories,Captured by the lens of your eye,The shapes in the clouds & the story of the sky,The writings on the wall,The ideas that float in a coffee cup,Shared with a friend,Destined to listen to

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-18550782864675882142009-01-09T16:28:00.000-08:002009-01-09T16:43:40.905-08:00

Title by AnonymousStory by j.f. hawkins“I woke up really late last night, to try and see if there was a story, but when I turned on the light, there was nothing”I recall it exactly.I was standing in the building and looking down stairs that lead to the main entrance. At the end of a long gray road, past the small crowd I seam to have generated…. there she was.Caught in a moment of time, somewhere

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-16737064146855448642008-12-18T05:21:00.000-08:002008-12-22T17:02:45.320-08:00

I sleep with my window open.Finding all the warmth I need from my blankets,I entertain the cold world,I like the Security of a quilt,I hide behind my sheets,It's a cold, self-inflicted pain,Ill-tempered air,And idolized duvet,Idiocy at it's best,There's a reminder there,Of a life that could be better,I save myself, night after night,With a refuge that wouldn't be needed,If it weren't for my own

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-69333541984084126122008-12-08T16:49:00.000-08:002008-12-18T08:15:58.885-08:00

When we grew up, I had hoped we wouldn't change like this.Where once a field was bright green, joyous, and opportune, I now see a pointless space that reminds me of the scars we left, we left each other.I had thought we'd still be there, in the lush green plane, still playing with each other.When you fell in love, my heart sank.When I went away, I looked for the friendship I always had with

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-22227457930802209832008-11-26T15:43:00.000-08:002008-12-18T08:18:48.181-08:00

A title by jason cairelli,A story by j. f. hawkinsIt buzzed in his pocket.His phone.He had an idea of who it might be. He wasn’t going to answer. But it became evident to the thirty or so people sitting on the bus (& possibly to him), that he had the worst ring tone ever.As he reached for the device, the technological tumor, he wondered who the idiot was that thought it was a good idea to be

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-7913184055488514292008-11-20T11:09:00.000-08:002008-11-20T11:59:18.032-08:00

a title by jack diaz,a story by j. f. hawkins,a small contribution by tina de souza,She was sitting in the last carriage of the last train of the evening. It seemed to be moving at a snail's place. A sickly feeling and irritated fluorescent light couldn't decide whether or not it was going to be on or off. Pooling at her feet was the sticky debris of unwanted Dr. Pepper.She wanted to move from

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-12237221321639173102008-11-18T04:40:00.000-08:002008-11-18T05:19:13.003-08:00

A title by Unknown Lady in Monmouth Coffee,A Story by j.f. hawkinsThere was something down at Southbank on Saturday night. The night you were working. It was a fire work display for Guy Fawkes. It was called, uh, I don't know, something very English and marginally lame.... Something like "I fancy Fire".You know? The sort of title you felt sorry for; you knew what it was going for, but it didn't

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-80115137454334289682008-11-17T10:55:00.000-08:002008-11-17T11:18:05.484-08:00

There is a place that I visit,He lives there, a man I loveWho's thoughts are exquisite,I tell him of all my trifling folly,He lends me wisdom& tells me to be jolly,He explains the world,What he sees as creation,Highlighting that all which is bad,Is not just damnation,"Your hudles", he muses,"are not what they seem,with each one you jump,There's a talent to be seen,The effort you apply & the way

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-35911324357419624292008-11-16T14:42:00.001-08:002008-11-16T15:44:36.408-08:00

title by Unknown Child on Tube,story by Jonny Flash, He had taken a liking to Bran-Muffins. Lord knows why. He once had admitted he found them void of any flavour's trace & that they made his mouth as dry as the Sahara, but still, he insisted, Bran-Muffins were the breakfast food for him. As part of his tradition, each Tuesday morning he would sit at the breakfast table, coffee in mug &

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908322207721294636.post-12466989727743696132008-11-16T08:47:00.000-08:002008-11-17T16:01:14.332-08:00

I had this same thought when I was Young.Which is still true -It's the same thought & I'm still young.I'm going to be a writer.A Writer is no more than a professional thinker. I'm inconsistent in everything beyond thinking. If a writer is telling a story or examining the human condition, he uses words to make the thought possible for anyone else to understand... like a painter uses colours & form

jf. xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782825094033551176noreply@blogger.com0