Unusual March with Bobo

The discarded oak leaves shone
as autumn’s fruits in the evergreen bush.
The rain pointed the way home and we followed,
I, on one end of the leash, and Bobo on the other.
Sometimes I led, sometimes I didn’t – but I was never the master.

The morning sun was sleeping in beneath an army throw.
The falling drops struck the pools that sprouted in the street
as a drunk drummer’s fingers rattling the parchment of a drum,
marking a stuttering rhythm of ungainly progress
for Bobo and I, walking back home under the pouring rain.

Victoria, November 1st of 2010

(view as a story)


It’s about what you do, but also what you don’t.
It’s about what you touch, what you smell, what you linger on.
It’s about what you refrain from thinking,
About the nooks and crannies you avoid at home
(The new geography of your home,
filled with countries conquered by the absence,
now inaccessible to you).

It’s about the unwanted small freedoms you inherited from the pain:
Not taking him out when you wake up in the middle of the night,
Leaving the door of the basement open
without the fear of him falling down the stairs,
Leaving the door of the bedroom open – for the same reason,
Leaving the gate open without having him wonder out into the street,
Not cooking for him,
Not cleaning after him,
Not locking the living-room to protect the carpet,
Not having to mind his habit of finding himself tangled between your legs
–  or right behind you as you turn,
Not bringing up an extra breakfast every morning,
Not picking him up to go upstairs
on shutting the house for the night.
Such freedoms, I can do without

Most of all it is about the absence
His ubiquitous absence
A thick quicksand of an absence
A pervasive, invasive, all permeating absence
With an ineffable throat I cannot choke
An absence that leaves a bottomless hole
That I nevertheless try to fill
So I remember, I look at pictures and seek his presence,
Just out of the corner of my eye
As the hole gets bigger

Night ride

Climb astride, gallop!
I’ll be your steed for the night
Ride me without fear
We are joined steadfast
by mortise and tenon
We are joined forever
As gulf and ocean
We are one
As waves and water
Water and waves
Earth and hoof
Horse and rider


Loneliness is not the broken violin,
the worn strings
or the useless bow.
Loneliness is the missing musician.


1 –
“Sometimes it feels that your life is a game you play to make me feel more and more lonely” He said with his eyes fixed on something outside the window.
She took a long time to ponder this and then she said simply: “We need more milk…” and then, when he turn to look at her she added: “and butter…”
He stood up, grab the car keys and his wallet from the table, picked up a couple of reusable market bags from a hook by the entrance, and left the house to never come back.

2 –
His body was found two hundred and seventy three thousand years too late, in a sedimentary layer corresponding to the twenty and twenty first centuries of the first cycle.