Little-Big Stories for Little-Big People (Climate Council) →

October 06, 2021

Stories have always been a way to animate the world, to express Earthly aliveness. Through stories we share perspectives and in the process we de-centre our own narrative, perhaps get inside the mind of a dolphin or a violin or a piece of seaweed. If the problem with global warming is a broken human-centered narrative – a narrative that breaks – then true climate action comes down to sharing ecological stories. We need stories that heal, stories that are alive.

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Read the full article (+ book reading) ↩︎

I could have been on a boat

would have liked to

a boat would be nice but

if I can’t have a boat

I would like to just fall asleep

when my credits roll

to fall asleep right at the end

at that small jut

where the audience thinks maybe

there’s another scene surely

it can’t end now

and they don’t know

or want to but wait

to see if the darkness continues

then music begins from

somewhere behind and

the words rise up

the credits roll

I’d just fall asleep then.

Imagine

having five grand.

(overheard)

When the sun sets

before the night

and I’m riding

down the three-lane

barely lit, moving,

knuckles white

the rushing air from passing cars

to my right;

the curb is always close.

There’s a certain numbness:

winter’s night,

gloveless hands, lost

love, depression –

moving towards the orange light,

near red.

I grip the bars,

shaking,

facing the intersection

and sailing through,

nearly missing.

The sound of a rock

underarmed

into the shallows

is louder than

the sound of a thousand

handfuls

of tossed sand.

The gait of a wingless bird

inside a circle

of hands and feet.

Sometimes I feel like a brick.

A brick in a pavement,

on a wall,

up a church,

inside a chimney.

There are other bricks.