I sat down to write but not sure why. Or what. But i felt like posting something, and if one doesn't do things when they feel like they should, then i guess most other reasons don't make much sense. I am sitting about in my house in Essendon - sipping Jasmine tea and watching the shards of pink day slowly melt into the deep pastel of night. Casiotone told me that happiness is something we have to fight for and even then, it usually just happens to us - no more is it our doing than the wind and rain that worry our eyelids. And today i think i have been happy - and it is all invested in things that are yet to occur.

After the end of Landscapes Within, the last piece of theatre i performed in, i didn't ever want to perform or direct ever again. I think some of my friends were disappointed, but i would have been happy to have burnt down the black boxes in my head. Everyone starts doing their own things again - holes are dug up and the rain fills them in. Again and again. So then it was singing and computer music for a while - but after came travelling, which seemed to wither and die in memory, but has returned thick and lush. I remember sitting in the Ganesh cafe on Om Beach and gazing out at the Arabian sea. We wrote so much poetry and it was easy because we were living it - the inspiration was in the tides - drawing us out, happily drowning, again waking, again walking, our footsteps swallowed by the sand. I remember crying because i could not think of ever feeling such joy. Each night the voices of the rainforest giving chorus to the dying of the light - and we begged the sun to stay, to keep doing the sun for us, more sun, forever. Just so long as you don't mess with our nights.

I woke with sand in my hair and distortion on my tongue. It was mountains that had popped up out of the ocean and the trees had laid down for snow. We were so warm and the words dripped like honey oozing from a crumpet. Two mouths floated on the surface of my tea - a train tore a fissure, the all knowing, the sleeping rocks, the nearness of the Friend. I was still crying my, the delicious sea salt, and i hoped i'd never stop.

I got up because i needed water, and after walking around and doing a head stand and looking at the morning i played with a disc and noticed the glasses and remembered i was thirsty! I sent out a text message and got replies from nearly everyone and so in a week or so we are going to get back on the floor and workshop and play with the space and see what comes up. I haven't got a script in mind. I don't have a performance in my head. I just think i have the strength to tell a room how to move and to help the white walls crack, spew, and bleed. But maybe not... maybe i never will ever do performance ever again. But if i don't act on this impulse then i will not know if i could have, as i would not have written this if i had not just felt like i might.

If you are reading this and you haven't listened to any of the chotto matte rehearsals, then you should. They're pretty funny. I like them now that i don't hate myself so much. I know these words are a bit melodramatic - but isn't that how we feel sometimes? Perhaps the tide is not yet out, but only another wave has struck, disdain and weed sucking between my knees. But i know that another shall soon build, roll, collapse and cry upon my shore. And i should love to remember the salt beneath my nails, the footprints, sinking in the sand.

And we are imagination as the earth is sun in all its manifestations - see me sitting, writing, weeping. See me standing, upon the shore, see me waving.

Ben