The Ballads Of Mister Rhodes

I have to tackle this chronologically. It’s too easy for us to get lost in the notion that there is anything more than time that connects us, ultimately. So, to begin, I stretched out over the concrete block and stared up at the sky. That place, where, at times, I can neither see nor hear anything of the human world. The waves, birdsong, my dogs playing. That is the soundtrack. In that absence of the human world, there is a stillness that I often do not know what to do with. It brings on nausea and a little lightheadedness. I count my breaths and try not to get wrapped up in the idea that there is something to release, although I am sure there is. In a clear blue sky, I can see so many markings on the lenses of my eyes. I wonder for a moment if these will eventually lead to blindness. I also find a little peace in the fact that, at almost forty, I am beginning a physical decline, and that is something that I must find peace with. Whilst the dogs are playing my mind reminds me that the

“there isn't enough of anything as long as we live.  But at intervals  a sweetness appears  and, given a chance,  prevails.”   - Raymond Carver I unleashed the dogs and sauntered over to the usual concrete block -it makes do as a seat amidst the sand and dirt. Additionally, it’s large enough to lay back on and have a complete panorama of nothing but the sky. I think it’s a drain cover of some kind. Part of an abandoned development. There are unfinished foundations a few feet away. The architectural ghosts of COVID. The skeletons of over-frivolous excitement. Laying on my back, I escaped the twitch of anxiety, or perhaps it was a soft sort of existential dread, that I had been feeling earlier. The distance between the rolling thunder and I put me at ease. An ambulance and two police cars had driven past me earlier in the day. I messaged my wife to make sure she was okay. Many of the drivers here are reckless, and there seems to be little conscious thought for the fragility of human

“Wholeness is not achieved by cutting off a portion of one’s being,  but by integration of the contraries.” - Carl Jung At the risk of sounding conceited, or perhaps even self-acquitting, I have been wondering around the idea that our hostility towards ourselves and the world around us might, in fact, be the very same thing that is essential for carrying ourselves in a way that has us setting examples worthy of following. I am exceptionally tired today, incapable of cooking the day's final meal. I have been waking up at 5am and running with the dogs, eating breakfast, then going to the gym. That is my morning. My afternoon consists of eating again, taking a nap, walking the dogs again, and by that time I'm a few hours shy of slumber. It is in these last few hours that I have been meaning to write something, but I am often too hungry or entirely uninspired. There is a stillness to the mornings that I regret not spending more time with, and there is a sense of solidarity and self

 "The only thing that can ruin a good day  is people." - Hemmingway A little way down the beach you'll encounter something between a fold in time and a public exhibition of why things might go wrong. Like most things, the more crucial patterns of human behaviour are not to be found in freak incidents and news headlines. We don't need to bare witness to young men with machetes or remorseless rape gangs to see which way the slope is facing, although it is unlikely to be completely unrelated. What you need to be, is on the lookout for the small everywhere things. In the last five years of my life I've lived in Phu Quoc, Vietnam. A place where I have witnessed the gap between music and futuristic construction noise grow smaller, but louder, and wider spread. So don't be surprised as you head a little way down the beach if you start hearing such a noise. These events are called 'team building exercises,' and they are put on by larger organisations to inject

As I walk down the stairs with dogs to leave the appartment building we live in, I hear the toddler that belongs to somewhat at the massage parlour downstairs. I double wrap the dog’s leashes around my right hand and stand and wait. They probably wouldn’t do anything, but it one should always take precautions when they are available. A woman, who I am presuming is the mother, rushes through the door and snatches the toddler off the ground and runs around the corner, pressing them both against the elevator door. The mother’s eyes are wide with panic. My dogs are silent, sat waiting for my go ahead to continue down the stairs.  I feel something like a registered sex offender must feel as parents rush out on to the porch to usher their little ones inside, as they walk down the street to go buy some eggs, and perhaps a newspaper. It is that reminder that you are seen as something you can be, and not as the something you are at that moment. I don’t blame the woman for taking precautions, bu

 I should write this like a sigh. Not a particularly deep one. Then delete it all, quickly, without self-reproach. There are, after all, parts of us that have not blossomed to be shared.  Songs About The War by Jamie Rhodes My dog is looking at me like I'm expected to do something. Immediately. We were out walking along an unlit dirt track the other evening. Some way out in front of us was the silhouette of a man using his bike as a seat, smoking cigarettes. Both dogs became upright, their ears tall. Low growls from both of them as we got closer. I wrapped their leashes around my right hand, freeing my left. A skinny Eastern European, possibly late for the sunset. As we walked passed him the dogs eased up, and I let one off the leash and continued on, listening for any sound of footsteps behind me. The dogs relaxed, and so did I. As I passed him, I took a short moment to eye what I could. His frame. What he had with him. How he was dressed. His expression. The notes of his voice wh