27 August 2015 – A woman accustomed to waking in the dead of the night. To fend off bad dreams. That bear a frightening resemblance to the wayward reality she’s fought to put behind her. What disturbs her sleep is the sense of reliving her nightmare. Fear of the darkness that was. But what haunts her most is the chronic impulse upon waking to seek out needle and spoon.

She suffers a syndrome of addiction recovery. Drugs. Alcohol. She’s managed to stay clean for months. But the cravings are relentless.

One night she wakes to something other than the residuals of another bad dream. Instead of darkness a weightless light. An unusual clarity. Filled with hope and purpose. The essence of which is getting rid of everything.


Is this Delilah?

03 September 2015 – First week back like a holiday. Skulking around the house. Its quietness eerie after G and Liz gone to work. The day ahead an ominous assemblage of hours to fill. Time to myself. To do as I please. Haven’t quite adjusted but getting there. Combating idle hands by running in the park and going for long bike rides. And today, at last, feeling centred enough to sit without the distraction of looking for a job.

Fret me not. A work in progress.

Things are otherwise good. Nine months along the house is much as it was, though there is less evidence of G’s mom. Doilies, vases, trinkets removed throughout. Many of the paintings have been replaced with Liz’s work. Biggest change = one of the spare rooms upstairs now sits empty. G figured it only right I should have a room of my own. Mission this weekend is to furnish it to my liking.

He’s got it in his head that maybe I should pursue writing. We had a good long chat about it the other night in bed. He’s convinced I have a gift. I countered that I’m not so sure I have the patience or stamina for it. Let alone the interest. He brought up Delilah. How she’s on the verge of becoming a story. I tried to downplay what I’ve put together so far. But he wasn’t buying it. He straddled himself on top of me.

‘Do Delilah,’ he said. Once, twice. Then launched into a chant. ‘Do De-li-lah. Do De-li-lah.’ His fist syllabically pumping the air.

I get to wake up next to this man.

On a somewhat related note, G’s current notebook. Before me on the kitchen table. A collection of quickly scribbled notes. Very few running longer than a line. Many are plants.

Botanical name – common name(s). FAMILY.

Overall it’s nothing like ‘delivery’. There are no narratives. No streaming or linking. As far as I can tell he’s dropped any mention of the personal. The entries are random, naked, rarely dated. Some appear to be ideas. Others, briefs on passing events. Albums and songs are mentioned, as is the occasional name. And of course a judicious measure of wordplay.

From the freshest page:

– The ssuddenness of miracles.
– Nevering the endless.
– Cecil the lion. And his brother Jericho.
– The year in abracadabra.
– Natalia Molchanova. Freediver who dove and didn’t come back up.
– Al Kooper’s early solo records.
– Successfully surrendering to flight.

Who’s the writer here?


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