Today I discovered I have a wierdly psychic werdy mouth. A young friend and colleague of mine showed up for his first engagement of the year at our place of work. "He went away a boy and came back a man" I joked as he walked in the door. Later he told me that his mother suddenly passed away on New Years Day. He said the only time he has cried was when he and his brothers carried her casket through the church. He's 19 years old. I didn't even believe him at first because he's the most notorious bullshitter I've ever met. It's so sad.

Reminded me in a way of a character from one of my favourite poems, 'Introspection of a Sibyl' by Ruth Fainlight, a prophet who understands the precision of language and the acute power of observaion.

"But I am no more conscious of the prophecies
than I can understand the language of birds.
A bird is songing now.
In spite of legend, like everyone else,
I wonder and guess at its message.
My oracles come like bird-song - or how I imagine
they must begin to sing - by instinct:
neither needing or able to think.

The most terrible phrases come from my mouth.
My profession is doom to strangers.
Already, as a girl, playing ball with my friends in the village square
or feeding my tame pigeon, I remember
being even more appalled than my parents
by what I'd say: an unfirgiveable insult
dealt out in all innocence, or a blurted sentance
like a gift to confirm good fortune."