For some reason today everything seems to be marked as important, highlighted to make me pay attention, and yet I stumble around and tumble into and over obstacles. The most ordinary things, things I am so used to they are like wallpaper are jumping out at me. A crack in the pavement will stand up and remonstrate to me saying that I need to watch what I am doing and be aware of danger.
“Well, I don’t know, really” she said. “Should I smite you with my wrath or just forget about it?” She smiled and tapped her pencil on the desk. “This is an important decision and it affects both our futures. If you think you have gotten away with this you might just keep doing it. I wouldn’t want you to leave with that impression. What do you think I should do?”
Forced to flee for freedom, I found my self fenced in a funnel-like freeway, where with many fellow travelers also filtering down from forking footpaths we were channelled to the far end like a fast flowing river.
The heck with it. Do you think I am going to sit here and decompose while you perform random acts of kindness for strangers. Why do you think I want to wait while you offload some groceries to the old biddy and wheel out her garbage bin?
Where does this all come from? Am I reaching for the stars or sitting here drooling into my bid while the coach travels to the end of the line. Does it matter?
It can’t be everyday that I need to go over this. Why give me fools when all I want is a peaceful life. You need to get up, wash then tidy up and make your own meals. I don’t care if there isn’t enough milk or cereal, eat toast or fruit instead. When we run out of your favourite food you need to tell em the day before.
What are the three rules? Do I need to repeat them? One, get up on time. Two, wash and get dressed in clean clothes, leaving your room tidy. Three, eat something for breakfast and be polite to everyone at the table.
The rest of the day you can express your personality as you wish, but this time in the morning I am in charge, this time is mine and these are the rules.
Writing is more than putting words on paper: writing is not collage, a brain dump or random stream of consciousness. Nor is it the art form equivalent of creating paper-mache models. To write is to exchange meaning with predefined tools, and knowing the tools and how they work and are effective is the job of the writer.
Why is it that my good intentions and my behaviour work in opposite directions. It is as if willing something to happen for all good reasons kills my motivation, as though my active spirit in the here and now is the antithesis of my future self. It behaves like a spendthrift, leaving my future self poor with few options.
“Which movie are you off to?”the waiter asked.
“The 3D Gatsby,” she replied. “But we are at the stage where we might see it in 4D.”
Her companion, hanging onto the bar as if resisting gravity, looked aimless and homeless, forlorn and bereft.
“If it’s no good we’ll leave,” he said. “Let’s have another bottle.”
”That’s right, said the waiter reaching for more wine, “Live life on the edge.”
“Right,” the young man said. “On the edge of a bottle. Thank you waiter.”
Self promotion seems to be an individual addiction but we need to study it in situation. In the sisterhood it is recognised but how is it displayed and in what circumstances does it display, it is allowed to display? Where are the people who cannot do without their faces firmly in front of the pack?
I feel very comfortable in random patterns, living in chaos is fine. Repetition seems in comparison a barren reality. It is like a life sentence with no parole. With random you get spontaneous action, you can dream of a new future, you can laugh at how irrational life really is.
I will say I have an hour and then an hour later, when he has hidden himself away and has been secluded with his thoughts in his own personal world, he will start to talk. Why does he do that. Do I look like someone who can just wait around until he wants to notice me? It is a bazaar power game with no winners. It has become like a dysfunctional ritual.
“Now why would I do that,” she said, “Why would I take your stupid leaflet just to throw it away. Maybe you can see a neon sign above my head saying come here to see today’s fool. Why else would you be pestering me?” Usually she walked around as though invisible, but today avoiding people was hard work. There seemed to be more people about then usual and a lot of noise.
“It is Scarlatti, isn’t it?” she asked. Where had this oblique reference come from? Why is she asking me? I can hear her talk but the meaning is not connecting with my brain.
“Yes, probably,” I replied. “Maybe you should ask someone who is into that sort of music. Give me a good rap tune any day, at least that gets you moving.”
“You don’t hear classical music on the bus often,” she said and paused, “Then again, if you were on a crowded bus with rap music playing, by the time you go off you would be spat out like a programmed zombie.”
“I remember saying that,” he said. “But I will probably be gone by July.”
Why delve into the mystery. I smiled when he made the offer and that should have been enough. The emperor’s clothing he wove for me with his promises even then did not stop me feeling the sharp cobbles under my feet or the cold of the approaching winter. The same lessons don’t need to be learned every day.
“I have missed you,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I feel shattered and a shell of my former self. I don’t mope around weeping and miserable when you are not here. In fact, I quite like the missing sensation, it gives me a frisson when I think of you, even to the point that I like you more when you are not here.”
I’m in warrior mode
having gone more than two months
without a day off
Most weeks I only sleep six hours a night
and I trudge forward
with resolve sharper than I ever knew
prior to this two month deluge.
This is not a poem.
This is my awe on the page,
an ink bottle tipped over,
with its contents finding solace on the page.
His shoulder blades- but not them, where they meet, a ripple of skin between-
his past, broad and sturdy, an endless sea appart from home. A wrinkle of kin.
THWACK the hammer of the future falls sutures fall, losers cry et fall behind.
we sore. we fly, we left behind we soar? no more
we stare at the sun for where to go
Manhattan, with its tall shivery buildings held in embraces of cold stone and silver glass, frozen in repose over the night sky and distant horizons. She loved Manhattan with its last two syllables tripping over each other on her tongue and the small personal cafes with their walls of warmth defrosting her face after a battle with the chill wind. She loved steadfast winter in Manhattan with streetlights shattering sparks over shiny stones embedded in the sidewalk asphalt, shining in rainbows against the stark black of the evening sky. She loved Manhattan in its death and its dark, and loved Manhattan all the more in its life and its light, accepting the city for what it was: a story cherished in the hearts of children, a dream crumpled at the bottom of a desolate, polluted river, a hope with wings spread against the shuttered landscape, a yearning desire to be free. Manhattan was all these things, and more.
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