first there was the door

    it is hot 
   the house is in lockdown 
   the glasshouse is sealed off from the     
  lounge with thick ex british embassy   
  someone that used to be a friend got them .
  hard to imagine the brits in canberra  
  having a garage sale.
  maybe it was who you know knows  
  someone  and that someone said psst very 
  expensive thickly made blue swirls triple 
  lined are on the chuckout pile.
  they went to a house in canberra where 
  they were way too long for the windows.
  they are a 4m drop for crying out loud and 
  I knew as soon as I saw them that they had been made for our room .
       funny thing is when john was building the house from the ground up with mudbricks the walls had to be a certain height because  of a  door as in our front door. wooden  with a frosted glass window above  and in the middle of the frosting  a sword and shield. blue and gold perfect colours for the curtains that arrived many years down the track.  and that is why I call it a castle because of the height because of the sword and because it carries a medieval vibe about it.  mud walls mud floor secondhand windows and the beams sourced from this forest.
      a handmade house created lovingly over 2 years by John after he chucked in the city the business the bullshit and chose a life within nature.
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2012 at the faerie embassy begins

a new year

a new blog

another statement

an observation.

the year of prophecy

the year ringing a dinging in peoples ears

in drunken end of year conversations

end of world fears riding

the coat tails of the imprisoned mind.

whispers of hopes

dreams of unity

promises a mystery.

the  end  becomes

a beginning .


he comes now on his bike

went off to fix Carols pump

he said,

tick tick the hot day passes

evening approaches with a cooling imagined

he will have stories to tell.

carole sees ufos when she is out in the wee hours tending her sheep

she is a shepherd not a farmer

hasnt a clue how to start the pump.

she draws pictures of the ufos she sees

 describing the event with much flourishing of hands and sound effects

to me to john but not to everyone,

some people dont get it she says.

he collapses on the chair near me

smelling of petrol and oil and machine

exhausted hungry and pissed off

the pump wont go he says.

he grabs a beer eats the chips

I pat I hover what do I know of his day ?

she is an old friend

a most unusual person worthy of a book

a national treasure perhaps but that doesnt make it easy

to get on with her

on her backward rundown farm

where  all the sheep have names

and all the lambs are hand reared

and tails bless their backsides.

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