Perhaps the flow of writing that seeped into my veins came to a halt upon our encounter, for the words had found direction, and the heart its home. But now there is liberation in the settling and time for a second endeavour to delve into the corners of the soul.

Two days past, the dream that consumed me was not my own. In my head I envisioned a dust-filled narrow driveway tracing its path to a stuccoed house encircled by low picket fences. Unimpressionable shrubs were planted stiffly around the compound and the air was rife with a sense of abandonment. Within my reach was a majestic tree that posed in affected glory, cradling in its arms a treehouse of mahogany and a dangling ladder. I knew not for what reason I was present, but I was certain of whose house it was and it baffled me for I had never been there. A break in the static image occurred when a car maneuvered its way into the scene, windows framed a mother and father, familiar faces reflecting dissension. I advanced forward and the car drove away, its silhouette slightly filmy, leaving four translucent shells of figures in its wake in the house that was their haven (souls left behind while the physical body travelled en route to utopia) I awoke at the crack of dawn and knew for certain the image of the house belonged solely to the stockpile of memories in Conan's mind, and not my own.  

More houses.

A "brilliant" and self-centered idea has been conceived to displace us from the exquisite place of memories that we have made our own for the past year or so. The prospect of engineered change is a horrible one and I am not of the most peaceable temperament at the moment.

Still more houses.

This afternoon as the sunlight enters my own house in shafts and beams, the coldness that usually emanates has been subdued. Maybe, just maybe, it could do for a passing afternoon when you are drawn into the regimentation of army.  

Brimming

You know that feeling where every object you focus your gaze upon is tinged with a hint of a glow, where melancholy is a figment of imagination and there is the knowledge that one is sated with no want or desire but just to be?

(This could be it.)

For in this life, the smiles are contagious and fog dissipates in light-shine. Its the end of a holiday spate but, regardless, now with a fluorish in ink we can pen down 2010 on our date-books and get caught up in the heat of moments to come. We can leap into the unknown unshackled and immerse ourselves in the icy plunge of a mishap or the all embracing warmth of a bright idea - for no one judges freedom down to the little details.

I await the year ahead with a fervour - a schintillating combination of concerts, painting and the grit of work, I foresee one hell of a ride.

I am thinking it's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images
And when we kiss they're perfectly aligned

Tranquility is ever-present in the eaves of the house on the second day of the year, with the sleeping boyfriend on my lap and the folk music of Alexi Murdoch through the headphones. It's all good in the shadows, the dark that doesn't burn but blankets, and the restful peace of the heart. The first passed with a bang - or a champagne pop to be exact, right on the stroke of twelve. As the fireworks glittered amidst the smoke spirals, luminescent against black night, hearts were entwined; the sky painted in a radiant display of man-made light and au-natural loving in our souls.

I rendered a painting for Conan, a month's work of acrylic on canvas with him as the grey wolf and myself as the bee encased in the traditional symbols for love - apples, roses, maple leaves and shells. A branched tree sprung from the ground representative of individual unravelling and coming together, an ocean of thought and free-ranging spirits on uncharted ground.

All we have is now, but within these parameters, we have all the freedom in the world.

We're high voltage humanoids/on a joyride through the asteroids - The Leonid Meteor Shower

In the depths of night, constellations parade; aligned to the intangible pattern of the universe, far from the grasp of man. Ever the intrepid wanderers, we lust to draw closer to the heavens, to don a mantle of moonlight over shadow, to feel, in a single moment, ephemeral rather than transient. People awaken to a violet medley of sky and flock like roving satellites to the hills, outgrowths, vantage points in manicured gardens wrapt in crepuscular charm for the singular chance to feel remotely superhuman, to be illuminated in a shower of stars. The Chinese Gardens in twilight take on an air of mysticism, the intricate bridges and watchtowers blanketed in sapphire and the chilled wind fresh to parched lips. The intermittent light of fire lanterns deceptive, parleying with the stars for their chance to shine. We lay on dewy grass and breathed in the striking infusions of the skies, the colours of dawn streaking through our veins and deep into our souls-magenta, seductive maroon and a tinge of yellow. And those with eyes unblinking had a sight to behold, distant meteors chasing each others tails, gleaming white on a darkened stage and spiralling towards a crescendo. Perhaps spirits did fall as the night went by with motley clouds blotting the light gems out of view, but merely a glimpse of that one elusive star held for me, in its trail, all the world.

Lemon-laced tequila with a twist of salt at midnight

and a yellow sugar-brushed meringue in the morning,

it looks set to be an awesome day!