30th April 1671

And morning wakes me with churchbells in faraway places and lonely starfish which slumber at my feet and I know that I am home, these wasted threads of life recall longings for the person I have been and the strangest of times that I have lived through and I can see the paths of mourning which bring me to the shore, I gather lobsters as friends and awkward insects which carry wine and candles to lay me to my rest. I am confused and ready to die.

29th April 1671

And on this day I sight beasts of burden, rich in turmoil and awkward of charm walking the road ahead and I wonder where this takes us, these days of low lit sun and strangeness and rusted gates dragging sheep skulls into open fields. Out there birds are breaking clouds and  further space throws comets into orbits and we are tied to soil and dust and our own sense of nothing.

28th April 1671

There is a feeling which greets you sometimes and yells you to your feet then runs of regardless and leaves you encumbered by dwarfs and odd pieces of machinery, and you wake from such dreams and check to see that your arms are still functionary and your wonderings are still stable, I climbed old walls underneath which time dug holes. The sky holds me and walks me into ruin.

27th April 1671

For most there is no road to damascus, just tiny silent moments of realisation which flutter away come dawn. Today I passed a grey man carrying a tree filled with birds. They know me on these down beaten back roads and at times I feel they fear to speak my name, But I am nothing, just a weathered rag drifting through open fields eroded by time. 

26th April 1671

I climb aboard a rusted barnacle covered train which takes me downstream and into open plains. A gent opposite whose wooden head rests upon a spring shows me the contents of his case which glows blue and green with the star fish within. 'The fallen stalk amongst us' he says 'and mark our every move.' I gaze out the window

and see strange creatures move from tree to tree. We are only chaos tracing a line from cradle to grave and finding what we need.

25th April 1671

I am not sure when time began or when history stopped recording but inbetween
there is me and all the strangeness and desperations that rest upon my shoulders.
And these are such worrying and unfortunate times that fellows will call out as if to
warn me and yet I continue to look upon them with scorn because these fellows have
no such place at my side.
And yet I carry windows that faces can look into, in hope that friendship shall occur.
I am cloaked in distance and haunted by mortality and clockwork chickens. 

24th April 1671

Morning breaks like an arthritic giant causing  flutterings of noise and half hearted
murmers. Moss covered cobbled stones direct me to a sign hung heavy with
irony and woodworm,

'Come Directionless and muddled, Come And Savour The Sights Unknown'

A moments pause could mean a lifetime, so after 5 I stumble on.

23rd April 1671

I sleep these days in abstract, short bursts that carry me down country lanes and leave me tangled on barbed wire fences. A sad old yellow moon casts shadows on the road ahead and does much to unsettle cats. I think of home and the miles and days between us and know I shall never return.

22nd April 1671

At 4:15 I was awoken by bird song and shadows and planets racing by. Sometimes life greets you by handshakes and welcomes and sometimes by indifference. I dress myself regardless and prepare for rain. In an old fallen shelter I light fires, to surround myself with distance and sleepwalk through the night. 

21st April 1671

They say 'beware the strangers of kindness and think of things unthought' but we believe in moments above such whimsy and visit wrath upon only those who stand in our way. If we are such doomed accomplices it is only through circumstance and loss of way. If these days are important it is only because we are alive. And if the world comes to us untethered and baiting us to fight? We shall make like crows and hide amongst trees. 

20th April 1671

Some days I feel my life is a river running into waterfalls and crashing to rocks below, but today it is a shrubbery gathered around a sullen pond clammy with frogspawn. I saw Van Gough wrestle Goya in a clearing and Churchill ordering sparrows from his lawn and knew what day it would be and why. 'We are all waiting for trouble 'Churchill shouted ' and trouble shall eat us in the end' I doubt his motivation for such thoughts. 

19th April 1671

Smokestacks spew animal ghosts into clouds which run off giddy and confused. I spy old Mr death out on the road ahead, he walks in broad daylight, tipping his hat and grinning at friends yet to come, all pinstriped and chaotic. A journey such as mine will bring death to my heels but I climb a tree regardless. 

18th April 1671

A blanket of fog swept over hillsides and nestled on the road ahead, giving me time to wipe crows from my shoulders and think on journeys past. By noon the sun had painted far off villages with soft light and longing and fearing only beetles and stilt men I gathered my dwarves and carpets and continued on. 

17th April 1671

My eyes awake to honey coated skylines and peppermint clowns teaching animals to sing, there is an awareness in me now, a feeling of place and time holding me to the spot like rags on  barbed wire fences. I count faces in clouds and smile when spiders try to steal my legs. I have seen such things which amount to nothing and envied youth which crumbles to dust. A man on stilts asks me to follow him and I think of nothing better to do. 

16th April 1671

It is a strong wind which blows needle children onto freshly mown grass and drifts confused starlings from trees, and for once I am at loss to stand tall in the face of nature's melancholy rage so I bide my time in refuge and sing songs from someone else's youth. The sweet calm of evening brought broken badgers and wooden legged emus who rummaged in foliage for chestnuts and slovenly luckless worms. The warm smell of woodchip filled the air as I  stuffed my backpack with forest foods and badgers, I stumble ever forward as regret aims arrows at my back.

15th April 1671

I cant wake myself from bad dreams or untie myself from trouble, fountains throw coins as if to swamp credence but I am burdened by sorrow, I am alone as twilight falls onto empty fields leaving me to walk as a soft limbed statue into future times of faded tales that no one will want to tell. They say the coffin is a home to everyone eventually and I know now that I shall treat it as a friend.

14th April 1671

Our paths diverge and twist and run off to god knows where leaving us in places no one wants to be, Here we meet Jasper, grey faced and tired, a man without shoes or common sense but given the job of tying lightbulbs to trees. Jasper is a man of wisdom but also great stupidity, He tells us the names of mountains and points to the places where ghosts hide in snow, he then falls inconveniently off a cliff leaving only embers and undrinkable wine.

13th April 1671

Today we walk with violins,chattering on roots and leaky radiators and pianos waiting to fall. This landscape resembles candle wicks and dashes of Morse code.  The table has left us for a packet of parsnip seeds and the promise of pizzicato lessons after the 4th of Never. I think about kicking the chair, but my toes are attached, so I don't. We lie together, imagining geese instead of stones beneath our heads. Tomorrow is a hermit crab,stalking the horizon so I roll leaves into my ears for protection and hope it's crumpets for breakfast instead of slugs.

12 April 1671

Dear Diary we are lost, we souls reflected in each other and given to sly remarks are no more in the habit of finding firm ground than seeking that which drifts above it, we have no forwardings save the roads on which we walk and no purpose save the absence of which it dictates, we are unusual in our shortcomings and profound in our own disdane. We are skyline drifters and this world is undecided of our repute.

11th April 1671

The soft air of spring sends clouds scuttling to faraway scarecrows to leave the roads
clear from rain, Threadbare stairwells rise at roadsides and beckon us to climb, but
 I have seen the futility of such journeys and the vacuums that lie beneath. We stop
at noon to watch an army of silent movie stars march into battle, bowler hatted,
awkward and likely to slip on banana peels.