This Is How We Echo

To find out some more facts about who I am and what makes me tick, please visit the about page, send me a note through the contact page, or see what I'm up to on the projects page. Thanks for reading! :-)

  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Tuesday, September 22, 2020
    It’s more than a perception, if anything it’s a rift, torn open by the actions of all who have occupied spaces before us. A leper squatted here, mute with the impediment of stigma, no longer seen as any parts human but all parts disease; a king lay there, drunk with the pleasures of a thousand concubines, tormented by those of his court who lust for thrones; here’s the place a suicide had her final deep blue pulse of thought: the earth was touched by each one, time and space covered them equally with touch, memorised their delicious bodies and filled itself with the intentions of their spirit. Don’t say you haven’t felt the pull, on some lonely, rambling walk upon a trail, or some anxious rush down a dark sidestreet, or entering an unfamiliar building – the presence of the things that came before – you walked through a centuries old murder scene on Sunset Boulevard; you slept upon a birthplace in a hotel in the 17th arrondissement; in Marrakesh you stepped upon the hallowed spot that a broken-hearted lover spilled tears of a grief born to secrecy. Here was a battle; there was a man stung to death by […]
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, September 21, 2020
    This is a parable for the clever kids. Nursery rhymes for politicians, next muck. Are your arms inside the metaphor? Then, quick-quick, it’s opportune to leap now, from that timesink to this, or from one sinkhole to another – it doesn’t matter how you view it – we need to snap the arrow altogether to get a grasp or grope of this meander: a reverse migration, to find ourselves sinking upwards through the yellow bog in the roof of your dreams – here, take a hand! Keep hold of your wits: there’ll be no chance to send a rabbit back for them, to drop them would be a calamity: they’ll be stewed soon enough. Your wits, that is: the bunny – no such luck on this night of nights. Back to it…addlings upon addlings, you will realize that the shavings from your own coherence are so dense on the floor that you can wade through them, and mine, and your Aunty Betty’s (or, for quibbling’s benefit, her nemesis or namesake), and the population of several small archipelagos, all of the inhabited planets – the collective threshing room, if you will – mi casa, su casa, – my madness is your […]
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Sunday, September 20, 2020
    On those days that I long to be an automobile, I walk the shoulders of freeways, lycra streamlining my torso, avoiding loose gravel and potholes. I am honing my mileage-to-the-gallon edges. I am output made transcendent by European effeciency. I am noise friendly rolling, sans thunder. Pimp this ride. Pimp this heart, pimp the soul of the defective man that cowers here with the ineffective gauges and the broken instruments – rocking and mumbling; rattling and humming; kissing the clumsy jagged absurdist maps of reality that have never resembled the territory. On those days that I long to be an automobile, I am practising not being judged for the things that I am not. I am not a sliver of smooth quartz in the wild indigene hand. I am not a Warhol nude. A cave‘s gaping silence. Lower altitude. Bluegrass. On those days that I long to be an automobile I am luring squints towards my shadowy form. I am striving not to be the moon. That dream is hung higher, and crescent shaped, and none of the light I cast has ever been my own.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Saturday, September 19, 2020
    I stretch, immersed in the scent of dew and fresh day, summer-new and hale, the scent of clarity and rebirth. Everything is opening to light. On the horizon, mauves and butterscotches bleed from the retreating darkness, lilacs and oranges seep like watercolors from the ascending furnace of the sun, and the pastel origins of an azure future gather in number across the sky. Somewhere, early, a brushcutter’s whine splits the peace; a bullfrog’s urgent call to mate begins, and beneath it all, the original drone instruments, the honeybees, hum the day into being, orbiting the dandelions and the clover, small moons of industry. An ancestral communion takes place and the body tunes in as a fork to the resonating world, an intimate ear to the atom in everything. Cleansing the heart, a grounding voice speaks from the inner realm with the benevolence of a god, and I am free to be a man, free to be a miracle once more, free to surrender, free to be part of the illumination that everything submits to. Love says, simply: Come out of youself. Be a fire.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, April 2, 2018
    “No man is an island…” the poet scrawled, and perhaps scrawled into Modern English the notion that we all – man, meaning human, and far from meaning the singular, and exclusively masculine form: “male” – are condemned to be part of a broad community of humankind, from outcast to highmost, and are therefore affected by the actions of countless others, and by extension, diminished by their countless deaths.  On a general basis, one must nod in hesitant agreement with the poet, for it is true that even as we sit down to dine at a simple meal of corn mashed potatoes and milk;  even if we have farmed the ingredients ourselves on a selection of land far from any road; even if we have renounced the remainder of our fellow beings from within a profound and violent misanthropy, we will, until the last of our days, have persisted in reaping the benefits of being human, from the countless successes in the history of maize cultivation, to those in the domain of milk production, those in the domestication of dairy cattle, and those in the fields of food preparation and cookery. Indeed, the realization must be that for all our living […]