Sometimes I hear whispers in the wind against my window – voices from long ago, almost entirely forgotten. And sometimes the voices speak of secrets more recent – like today, the susurrus sound of a boyish man saying softly “You do realise those maps aren’t of anywhere local?” and the uncertain way his inflection was aimed at light humour but did little to disguise an earnest interest in those faraway places. Like a teenager surprised to find someone slightly too close to the drawer where he hides treasures that would be deemed childish by anyone else of his age. A casual comment, calculated to feign disinterest, but given away by an almost undetectable quaver in his voice, and the way his words came faltering out a semi-tone higher than usual.

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Fragments of semi-/autobiographical content from about 2002 - that I'm trying to turn into a narrative work. Will likely shift from autobiography into fiction once I find my direction with this material.

updated Jan 8 by coleman