It Was These Rocks

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 like superman.
I have a saviour complex.

So here, I hide, on a page.
I'm in the ink and in the margins.
I've shrunk my world to the size of a head, sitting in sunlight, on a rock and by the water.

The waves compose lullabies in the tide as it hits the shore line.
Each lasts only for a second, but the wave continues making them for all of time, as long as the water is there.
The songs I hear are just for me and can never be recreated.

It was these rocks I came to when life began, it will be these rocks I come to when it stops.
They've give me space, solitude and romance.
And like a portal, they let me see into another world, one I seem to understand.

They speak to me, these rocks.
They appear to be cold and lacking life, but they hold an energy and wisdom.
They taught me to remember my insignificance, in the complexion of the earth.
They've shown me the duality of nature, in waters calm and brutal.
And though they've been eroding ever since the beginning, I see their inculpable beauty.

So when I leave these rocks and remember where I am, I feel all the more prepared to stay
in a world where I do not belong.

jf.x

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 them all,
they lend us sugar and conversation,

We can cuddle and talk,
into the crook of each other's neck,
We can go a little silly.

As the sun sails over, the shade grows,
We light pipes, fish and read papers,
appreciating the breeze,

If you want to,
you can stand on the deck and giggle,
or cry, if you've forgotten why we're here.

By night, I'll wear my hat,
and thick woollen jumper,
the one with the wooden buttons,

I'll sit there with my cup of coffee,
and speak softly to the captains of
the other house boats drifting by.

I hope you like where I'd like to be,
Initially, it will take a lot of effort,
but we'll settle in, eventually.

jf.x

MY LIFE PHILOSOPHY.

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 fighting an up hill battle, on my own, with a hand tied behind my back. I'm focusing on the wrong things.

If I spent as much time working diligently as I do trying to solve problems and make new systems, I probably wouldn't have the problem in the first place. My life would be more productive.

If I took care of my friends, I'd have all the friends I ever needed and I wouldn't need to fit in, because I just would, exactly as I am.

It's impossible to make a wrong decision; A friend of mine said "life is good, bad and usable. what's usable equates to 99%". All I need to do is brace myself for, what I call, "consequential wisdom" - these are the lessons earned through example, sacrifice and experience.

If I upset someone, it's not the end of the world. If my intentions are good, it's potentially the beginning of progress. Realistically, how could I possibly upset anyone; fundamentally, I'm a good person, and a person nonetheless, so please, forgive me and my humanity once in a while. Offence has so much less to do with the offender.

In regards to doing the right thing, it's almost impossible. All I know to do is follow the example of Jesus, as best I know how. If I get it wrong, refer to the latter part of the previous point. He said "It's impossible for a good tree to make bad fruit."

I can't please God with a striving mind, only a humble heart.

I'm probably less likely to say the wrong thing if I don't say as much as I do.

These are my life philosophies.

Listen to this and be blessed.
http://ioti.bandcamp.com/track/motion-of-sound

I was young when I left home.

I was young when I left home. Flora and Fauna, time to change, return to Jesus. Sat in a house with a lime tree around the corner. I had to listen up, the wind wasn't talking as much as it used to.

I made the most of what I had, out on the road, eating nothing but rice and tomato sauce, so there'd always be plenty of money for booze. I didn't like it in the end. I wanted to go back home, but I was scared of how much had changed. I never kept updates; time is like a shoe string and it's easy to find again, no matter where it's been left.

I found a compass that had no practical application, but served as a great reminder of 'away'. I wanted to find a small shack, out in the country, I wanted to be alone for a while - it didn't happen in the end, but gee, I was alone for a while. This was the most depressing, the time in solitude wasn't self inflicted, it was pain.

I picked up my staff, made of earth, I started to cry. But the tears never showed, not in the rain. A single note droned on a piano, like the introduction to the news. I missed the music we had made, being left alone to create a symphony from a single talent - a one man band.

Collecting strangers and strange attitudes, I became forgotten to myself and, in turn, a stranger. My name had changed and adapted its own person. I needed healing. I left Jesus sitting in the back seat of my Dad's work truck; I said I'd leave the radio on so he wouldn't get bored. Three months later, the battery had gone dead and Jesus wasn't waiting there any more.

I stood in front of the ocean, in the middle of the night, smoking cigars with a friend who I was missing. He knew me before I became someone else. He talked and I was happy to listen, even though I was still so far away, separated by my new name's persona. A little abstract, being gone, but at home.

The look of the days changed, things became still, well illuminated and covered in a blanket of blue sky, flowers opening into spring. But the wind still didn't stir.

I slept behind the lounge of my parent's apartment. The neighbour was a drummer. He practiced after his night shifts. Any change of dreaming new things was thwarted by his talent. My itching feat hid in leather, the light teased them, so I spent most of the day in bed.

I went to a hill-top, more of a cliff, overlooking the sea. The still air became wind. Jesus was sitting on a park bench. He asked me where I had been. The conversation rolled on, but I soon worked out he wanted to be talking to the person I was no longer being. Again, he asked me where I had been. He gave me a lift back home.

jf.x

James

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. The band was back together,
His father had yet to die and there was still a chance in tomorrow.

The suicides hadn't happened and the future was still as bright
as yesterday's redemption.

The night grew cold and a candle flickered. A tear fell from his eye and hit the floor.
He put the guitar down, remembering why he stopped playing.

All of a sudden, he's back in the room, to which he exclaims,

"Man, it's been a long time"

Love sydney.

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. Kids walk through dew soaked lawns. Men and women head back from the gym, buying orange juice from the cafes that line the streets of Leichhardt, Paddington and Caringbar.

There's a song made by a great orchestra. It's comprised of the cyclists riding through Bay View, the school bells of suburbia, the waves at Bondi, the coffee machines in Surry Hills, the Uni student hitting the snooze button, Manly Ferry's diesel engine, a camera taking a photo of the opera house, the Gallery of NSW opening it's heavy doors, the lady's high-heels that echo through Martin Place.

When you get up early enough to see Sydney unfold, you can't help but love it.

You feel the pace of it's heart and get an overwhelming sense that it's alive.

In every moment, there's opportunity to fall In Love.

In love with Sydney and in love with it's people.

jf.x

http://www.lovesydney.org/

Their Love and Her Visa

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 rain

and windscreen wipers,

Not ready for collision,

two hands separate, 

drifting in distant air,

The other two are Finger-locked

and bonded for eternity,

Her slowness, in mourning,

His sunken-eyes, full,

Inevitability and decision

became so hard to bare.

There is sorrow

Today is full of tomorrow-thoughts,

and all the tomorrows go unknown,

In thinking -  Love has been forgotten,

Geography leaks from their paper-cup,

There is no patch for what is being lost.

jf. x

Moving into 5th

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. Each piece is a relic of summer holidays and other adventures.

I've got my window down. The cabin is full of fresh, crisp air. It ruffles my hair on entry. The radio struggles to deliver a station. It produces a sound which is stifled by the traffic gliding past. Despite what's playing, I sing a song (at least the words I know) that remind me of youth's experience; girlfriends, best friends, lighting fires and staying up all night at the bay. I smile, recalling moments of happiness and even some of pain.

I've taken my tie off at some traffic lights. It's now on the dusty floor. My sleeves are folded up and around my wrist, they flutter with the wind that pours in.

Headed down a long and gradual hill, I slide into 5th, crunching the old wreck's gear box. On this perfectly still night, I feel as though I've the only thing moving. And as I roll down the hill, it's more like I'm effortlessly flying than driving. The motion is exhilarating.

I've got to get up early in the morning, but I'm in no hurry. I'm enjoying this time too much. For a moment, it's like being on vacation, nothing matters here. I'm away and free.

It's only me. Left alone with my thoughts. Illuminated by the dashboard and passing headlights.

jf. x

The Internationalist

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 what I wanted from life and how to make myself whole.

"Rebel! Rebel!", I told myself! An ambition that dissolved into to ministry.

I cried, each night, on my pillow, from the aching in my heart -
The eternal pining to call somewhere home, to feel complete and to be loved.

In London, I saw (and smelt) gypsy caravans. I wore the wellington boots and drank the pimms. I was quiet on a creaking tube and was loud on conservative streets. I grew mad with adversity and animosity.

I fell in Love!

I fell in love with the girl I'll always remember.

The girl who makes me feel loss to be talking about.

I lived the life of a romantic poet in Belgium.

I had cigars and wine; all before 10 in the morning!

I have the sonnets and prose to prove it.

I missed my friends and I missed my friend.

I tore my heart into pieces. I planted them everywhere I went.

I knew I could never reclaim them.

I hid in Holland. I found a place they'd call 'Gesellig'. I covered it in a thin sheet of night, placed it in a wicker basket and, later, into a parcel.

Then I forwarded on to New York;

There, I found the light and happiness I was missing.

A chunk of me, that I'd left in Sydney, was realised. I found it in the people who were surrounding the city. I knew I would need them to be near me - forever.

I went to New Jersey next, where I was alone again.

I cried. Overcome with the love I felt from the people I had been with.

"How could they love me," I thought, "when I'm like me?"

Next, I was overwhelmed by Love so big that it shattered me! And the Love I found, it directed me sternly - all while I was waiting in the New Jersey Airport!

I remember that during the time I was away, a friend died and left the world; while another died to truth and was now of the world, more than ever- and in conversation, the latter had become an epidemic.

New love was brewing and old love was being solidified.

I heard a call from an impossible place - Sydney....

... but I was boarding a flight back to London!

When I arrived in London, I was frantic. I started gathering materials in order to depart.
I left overnight and I said no goodbyes, though part of me was still burried there.

As the plane was landing in Sydney, I knew exactly where I was, but I dare not say how long I was there for; "I'm only anywhere as long as I'm present."

Here (again), I found pieces of me I never knew I had; Familiarity is a curse to understanding & innocents is a blessing to experience!

I found new eyes and saw everything as a beginning, though much had changed and ended.

I was the best I'd ever been and so glad to be me.

I booked a short stay in Hong Kong;

On top of one of Asia's peaks, by the foot of the world's largest Buddha, I drank scotch from a hip-flask I had purchased at a market in China and smoked the pipe I got in Chelsea. I was sitting, silhouetted in perfect blue sky, eating the plain rice I bought from a monk...

I wished that everyone I knew was there.

Life is where I live. Love is where I'm home.
To complete myself, I don't gather all of my heart's scattered pieces from accross the earth;
I love people and give them a piece of my whole, but broken, heart.


jf. x

A River Flowing Underground

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 through the haunted chamber, we won't notice; we're compelled by pure Adrenalin.

The journey we're on is toward freedom.

In a little red boat that waits for us at the opening of the catacomb, we'd journey through moments of darkness, still being in the drains, but then would be met by brilliant light, dancing across perfectly formed waves, beneath pink and blue skies.

It's an exit; A perfect way to leave all of which we thought we were behind. All of those who said we were what, and everything that proved them right or wrong.

If you say 'yes', I'll let you go.

But me? I'll stay behind.

The city may be difficult, but I'll find my way out from above the ground. Taking more with me than just you and I, so that all might know the way.

Though the buildings here are shrouded in grey and the skyline is like a dirty collar, its people offer more light than a thousand sunsets across an ocean ever could.

Sure, out there we'd be free, but freedom and time that haven't been earned are boredom in anyone Else's book.

Life is beautiful.

jf. x

The Father's City

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 see it as our own.

When time came, we searched beyond the city's walls for answers; we found none. 

We embraced every feeling that came to hand as it ran across the landscape. 

Rough rock. Cold waters. Soft Velvet. 

Trying everything but the Truth we had already knew of. And after years of wondering the wilderness, our hearts turned back to The Father's.

We returned to the city that was prepared for us and it was our own.

Generation, for Generation. Until Kingdom come.

jf. x

Clover and Bay Leaves

or 'Go visit Jeppedo'

A title by Kendle Sargeant

A 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 though, somewhere in time, years ago, she’d convinced herself that it’s all she’s good for. Like you’d pick up and leave if she didn’t make you a hot meal. She was always scared you’d stop loving her.

Her house was amazingly clean. Old women tend to have to cleanest houses. It’s like they become obsessed. Always shifting dirt from one place to another, but it never really goes away. It’s just not where it was anymore.

There was a clear plastic run covering the carpet on the stairs; she had it custom made for her because she was paranoid that the carpet on the stairs would wear out faster than the rest of the carpet in the house. She called the stairs “An area of High Volume traffic”.

I hadn’t seen this woman since I was fifteen, a real kid, ya know. Dad sent me across the road to see her every other Saturday. She became a sort of Aunty. We hadn’t spoken in years, not since I left.

“And your brother, young Jeppedo? How is he going? You still see him don’t you? More often than you see me hope! You boys were such lovely kids. Though chalk and cheese the pair of you. With your looks and personalities compared – grounds for infidelity on your mother’s part I think. Don’t tell your father I said that. How is young Jeppedo?”

She was a particularly cantankerous woman and very happy to air her opinion; A quality which lent itself to her aptitude for ranting and rattling on. Her thoughts were so rapid and flippant that there was no point trying to conduct a real conversation with her. The only thing to do in such a case is smile, nod & wait for a direct question with a very precise answer. I didn’t mind very much though. You were never really visiting for your purposes anyway, more for her sanity. The nature of the conversation was inconsequential.

She was old when I was a kid, now she’s really getting along. She’d spent her youth as a nurse and was married to her job. She was a nurse in 2 world wars. She never got around to the whole ‘husband and kids’ thing in her youth, and when she was ready to, her time had passed. She really was very alone.

Dad did his bit for her; suffering tea and scones every afternoon for the last 20 years. I didn’t mind the visits so much, but they really were very uncomfortable.

She was sitting in the kitchen, yelling across the room and through the service window. She was very conscious about any lag in conversation; though I'll admit, I found them a relief. She had what I used to call lethal old lady syndrome; a motor mouth and partial deafness in both ears. She’d ask questions and talk over the top of your answers, then get cranky at you for not participating in the “nice and civilized conversation I’m trying to have with you”. I used to think she was just a crazy old lady, but now I realize, she’s just tired of the silence of living alone.

Finally, she came out of the kitchen with a tray full of food. She was still using the same serving dishes she always had, at least, since I can remember.

“It’s good to have visitors every now and then, of cause, I see your father all the time, but I enjoy seeing other people from time-to-time. Your old man can really harp on sometimes, not his fault though. You can’t blame and person for poor-social skills, you blame the parent and their upbringing. That being said, you turned out alright. Even though you’re so often absent. Jeppedo doesn’t visit me either. I can’t believe you don’t see him anymore. Shame. He’s your own flesh and blood, you know that.

“ Careful! The tea is hot. It’s not English-Breakfast Tea either; your parents gave it to me. Some sort of token to repay me for the years of scones and beverage I’ve served them I suppose. It’s a herbal tea, I don’t go much on it. I figured you would, seeing as it’s your parents who gave it to me. Some god-awful concoction of obscure herbs. How’s your trip been? Good?”

My brother, the one she calls Jeppedo, he’s been dead for years. Dad told her when he passed away, but I think she pretended like it never happened. Finally, one day, I think she bought her own lie. I wonder how much of what she believes she made up one day to comfort herself. It’s like I was saying before – with the cleaning. Nothing is ever really free from dirt; it doesn’t ever leave it just moves. I moved away, but I was never gone and my brother was gone, but to her, he never left. I guess she would rather the idea of him being alive, even if she never got to see him.

She was wearing a dress; it had a purple floral print on it and a lacy-fill type neck on it. I hated that dress, but like that she was wearing it. It never changed. She still wore the same clothes.

“What’s wrong? You seam disappointed. It’s the tea isn’t it. Oriental tea, I’d never buy it. I think it’s clover and bay leaves – I don’t know. Anyway, next time you see your brother give him the tea, he’ll like it and then tell him to call in when he’s got a chance. Don’t tell your father I don’t like the tea. Now go visit Jeppedo”

jf. x

Some things are more perfect for what they're not.

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 headache, illuminated exactly as the utopian industrial park would recommend. The desks and other work-type-units are as practical as they are rigid. The insulated glass keeps the noise outside and the quiet in; I can hear nothing but the sounds of my college and me typing. Nothing is out of place.

I hate it.

I think it's true to say that romance and fondness are formed in blemishes. How disappointing life would be without disappointment! Consider a road trip without adversity. Would it have been an adventure at all? What would it have been without the hilarious story about that time when your car broke down and an unforgettably unsavoury truck driver lent you a hand- your friend does an impression of him later.

Think of glistening memories attached to camping trips you went on as a kid; now remember how it rained the whole time, you slept in a puddle and got pneumonia, in the few hours there was sun, you got ridiculously sun burnt and went home covered in mosquito bites. Your mum blamed your father for being irresponsible and it was the best time of your life.

How tragic would a pirate map be if it was perfectly presented on a crisp white, clean cut piece of A4 paper? It has got to be stained and worn, burnt on the edges and a little torn, or else it's not a pirate map at all. It'd just be some terrible children's drawing with a big red 'x' and a bit that says "here be Monsters".

I've never understood people who take photos and then have them printed on a canvas; they've taken the canvas, blank risk, pure potential, artistic adrenalin, a surface destined for the next Egon Schiele and then safe-guarded it with some massive print of a photo they already knew they liked. To me, it lacks luster. Does anyone else agree that we need to leave photos in frames?

I like good coffee, but for some reason, I love drinking bad coffee; the sort of coffee that an American-diner would serve. Black Coffee. I'm picturing one of those rounded glass pots that the waiter keeps pouring and the coffee is never-ending. I'm in love with that place. Understand though, it's got nothing to do with the coffee, but all to do with the scene in which I'm drinking it – Sitting in the company of none but me and my moleskin, clinging onto that cup to keep me awake, fueling thought and discussion. A tragic, romantic and self indulgent setting (see earlier post 'Untitled').

If it were good coffee, I'd be in a terribly civilized environment trying to fit in, but in my 'dream' diner, I'm no different to the 5-O'clock-Shadow-hobo sitting opposite me. He and I aren't trying to be distinguished anymore. We've been brought together by the ideals of our bad coffee and all of a sudden, we have a perfect understanding. We're connected because of what we're not, where we're not.

Houses that are too clean make me nervous. Times New Roman, blue ink and excel sheets make me feel sick. I never want to be the person who has to organize everything in advance to feel secure; the person who would be stressed on planning, rather than giddy with not knowing. I never want to forget how much fun getting dirty is.

Perhaps my distain for this 'perfect' work-space stems from an underpinned love for humanity. I want it and everything else to be as imperfect as you and I, both loveable characters.

jf. x

Untitled 2#

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 each other's ramblings,
From beginning to end,

So if I cannot sleep tonight,
For fear of dreams from home,
Please give me sweet reminders,
That make me feel less alone.

jf. x

My Head is Full of Nothing

Title by Anonymous
Story 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 between summer and autumn, on the cusp of an end and at the start of a beginning. There she was. Standing just as casual as the suburban lane that brought her.

That’s how it was the first time I saw her, and how she reappears to me in a dream. Each time we meet, it’s like I still see her for the first time.

She was foreign and unfamiliar, but there was a sense of always having known her. She’s an old friend already. Even though every time is new. "We click", she said while doing a kind of dance.

I asked her if she needed a lift from the place we were at. Unfortunately, for her, I only had my bike. Still, she was happy to ride it with me.

I can’t know how she felt about the journey, but the way I recall it, it was perfect. Her little hands wrapped around my waist. It was cold out side, so to escape the wind, she buried her face into my back. She spoke and then giggled, I haven’t a clue what she said, all I knew was that her little voice boomed inside my ears. I was worried she’d hear my racing heart.

I dropped her at the station and I kissed her on the cheek. It was such an awkward goodbye because I wanted to stay longer. All our goodbyes are awkward because I never wanted to say them.

We spoke on the phone. I asked her where she was, she said ‘in the bath’, we talked.

My head is full of nothing.

jf. x

Untitled

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 doing,

I may be better off,
I knew it was possible,
But for some reason,
I chose the struggle,

Fighting for comfort,
Battling for a sleep uninterrupted,
By wind, element, rain and raging strata,

It's my own doing,
The destruction of the life I've been given,
The cold kept me human,
That's how I wanted it,

Pretending it was possible for me to exist,
With nothing but what I had bought for myself,

I choose to believe,
That life would be no better off,
If I were to just get up
and close the window;

That is my great misfortune.

jf. x

When We Grew Up.

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 you.

Others, those who refused to change, are no better off; they are incomplete and alone.

They deny it happens, but they too lament the past.

Our Golden years ended too soon, but here are no seconds of regret.

All the time spent with you was not wasted, though it might be now.

We were journeying along our own paths.

I'm so glad I got to be apart of yours for the moments I was; I'm sad to see us part.

With so many places and corners, I pray that we meet again.

Maybe during transaction on an intersection, we'll remember what we once knew.

I thought I'd left you behind, but when I turned to find you, I saw your back.

We'd both gone in a different direction.

Can you blame me for trying?

jf. x

Go to The Beach and Roar for Boldness

A title by jason cairelli,
A story by j. f. hawkins


It 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 contactable 24/7, anywhere you were. Though he came to the conclusion that he was a bigger idiot for buying in; still, he wanted an iPhone.

He had to answer it. He had to take a bullet for the team, the thirty or so commuters growing tired of the monographic imitation of the “Funky town” intro he had worked so hard on the night before. They hated him for two reasons. Funky Town would be stuck in their heads all day &, despite his efforts, he had incorrectly programmed the last note of the infamous melody much to flat…. Unforgivable. Completely unforgivable.

Caller ID had dispelled any chance of mystery. Clear as daylight, Jeremy was calling him. Why is it that the only name to ever appear on that little screen is the name he’d be happy to never see again?

He had the same though every time Jeremy was calling.

Jeremy was well meaning. He found communality with him because they were both alone in this foreign country and that they were both originally from the same country and had lived in similar areas.

He was the type of middle aged male that had the vocal straining of a prepubescent boy & a laugh without any flow or control. If he found something funny, which was everything, he’d produce a low quality, single sounded bellow- loud and irritating like the afore mentioned cover of ‘funky town’.

“Hello Jeremy”, he said. In truth, he was thinking of saying, “You’re a problem. How am I going to get rid of you?”

Jeremy made an inquiry as to what his plans were for the evening. Normally, given such a case, it would have been easy to make something up; prearranged plans to see a friend for birthday drinks, or say he has his parent coming around for dinner. He could even fake being sick. But unfortunately, our hero’s options were limited. He had no friends to be seeing, he’s parents were back home, a thirty hour flight away & he’d used the sick line the week before- “I’ve got one of those… ah?... twenty four hour bugs when ya sick for 24 hours. So, I’m sick tonight, but I’ll be fine to see that thing on Sunday. You’re still getting tickets right?”

Quite a situation. Spirits thwarted by predicament, he swallowed his pride and agreed to the dinner invitation.

The master of images, he never let on that he’d rather throw his first born child into a blender than be at Jeremy’s house that evening; sharing in a nice bottle of wine, laughing at the day-to-days of life, eating a gourmet mean prepared by Jeremy’s own hands- His weedy fingers. Creepily long and thin.

He was only just becoming aware of just how horrible he really was. He knew he needed to develop a backbone, rather than a passive aggressive personality and a smile.

Tonight, he will go to Jeremy’s house. It’s possible that he’s going to hate every minute of it, but as soon as it’s finished, as soon as the inconvenient soirée is over, he’ll walk for a while, until he’s in a place where he is happy.

Sitting on the bus, he have himself one command, “Tonight is the last night you accept an invitation with regret, then, right after, you’ll go to the beach and roar for boldness”

jf. x

The Melancholy Gnat

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 the spot, but had concluded that the seat she was in was the lesser of a damned-commuter’s evils. A pile of chewing gum sat on the seat next to her and last night's sick was on the seat in front. She welcomed the company of spilt soda comparatively.

Was she on the train to or from hell?

There was no one on the train, given it was so late in the evening and the destination wasn’t very popular. Every now and then, she would whisper words and sing little songs to her self; she sang in the small voice, the one that’s made in the top of the mouth, at the back of the throat. It was fragile and sweet. She didn’t want anyone to hear her. But wanted to hear something- other than an unidentified buzz that was coming from behind her.

It a tragic scene. She felt like she was in some Russian play- the sort that suggested the most human of experience can only be found in grey clouds and impossible circumstance. There is no silver linings. Only searching. There is no point. Only a frustrating end.

Communists? One of them feels bad so they share the feeling with everyone. That’s why it doesn’t work; but probably not the only reason.

She had resisted trying to find the source of the buzzing. But now she had to find out what it was. She sat up and turned around, digging her knees into the crease in the green vinyl seat. Her kneecap found a misplaced piece of lego. So small, so painful.

She reached down to rub her knee. She moved her gaze from her sore join, to the seat behind her; there she found a Gnat with a tiny packet of tissues. It was crying as it drank a small bottle of red wine; it was sipping from a novelty-style bendy straw that kept eluding it's mouth.

The buzzing stopped, the Gnat looked up and asked her to mind her own business.

Not knowing how to react, she didn’t. Immediately, she turned around and sat bolt upright, starring straight forward to the front of the carriage.

The train came to her stop and she got up to leave. Still feeling awkward about her encounter with the melancholy gnat, she tried not to look at it as she passed by its seat. She shuffled down the stairs and out of the doors.

When she got outside, it was raining.

jf. x

Friends with the city

A title by Unknown Lady in Monmouth Coffee,
A Story by j.f. hawkins

There 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 quite make it. You can imagine the shape of the person who named it can't you? The sort of person who wouldn't even think to have an element of liberation or danger in a title for something to do with a glorified failed-arsonist.

I Fancy Fire? More then marginally-lame I suppose.

Anyway, I decided to go down and have a look, it didn't seem to bother me that I was alone. You know the type of crowd that fireworks will draw; everyone is happier when the fire lights up the sky. I wondered why, but I guess it's better in the sky, than on the buildings. It's not a forced happy either. It's a 'Saturday-night-in-front-of-the-TV-with-the-whole-family-after-a-massive-dinner' type of happy.

Everyone was oo-ing and ah-ing; you'd joke with the person next to you, even if you didn't know them. We all became very friendly really. Yes. I felt like I was friends with the whole city that night. You'd have loved it

That is, I felt like friends with the whole city up until the point I got on the tube. No friends there- not even if you're with your friends. There's no Friends on the tube. Ever.

Early Spring, that's the most beautiful time of year. It a good stroll-around-the-city time of year. It's beautiful. It really is. There is so much happening. I wish you were able to come with me. I wish we could share some of the moments and memories I have. You'd love them, all the experiences I mean. This city is truly spectacular. So much to do in such a short life.

It would be nice to have some company while I see the things I do. It's strange. Things are brighter and more memorable when there is a friend to laugh with. I wish you were with me when some funny happens; like when a beautiful painting is made by someone called Fanny or something.

You'd laugh the most I think.

I'd love to hear your laugh when I see the things I do.

But... I've become better friends with the city.

So, I suppose that's ok.

jf. x