Category: Fiction

he called her thursday

How I long to write you in all of your shifting
but its interminable nuance is impossible to pin down
and these glasses like tunnel vision are cramping my mind.
I could take off my glasses, I suppose,
but maybe you are just not meant to be written,
only spoken,
and probably in an ancient language’s complexity
with those musical scales we don’t even use anymore,
and that celestial spectrum our human eyes fail to see.
And then I started thinking about Jesus cooking breakfast on the shore after everything he had been through. If anyone’s profundity and humility came close…

He thought for a moment, that he was over doing it. But he wasn’t sure because of the compartments in his mind.
She didn’t have those compartments. And it moved him. Moved him.

He decided he wouldn’t work on his rhyming on Friday, afterall.

 

Part one – wednesday

 

 

She sighed.

“I can’t write like you,

with your weaving wrinkles

and dime shaped gold

your nesting tableaux

in colours that fold

so neatly in parameters

that have never been told…”

said Lily to her bear. Her very first bear. Still first after wonderful, adventurous, fun filled, pensively shaded years.

“Well, that’s because you aren’t a bear”.

 

 

wednesday

It felt so much like a Wednesday – porous and drifting…
It wasn’t quite cold enough to start a fire, which kind of threw him. It’s always nice to have a fire to work by, when the Wednesday dig starts.  But he reasoned with himself that the digs were getting shallower. Dr. _____ said that was a good thing – the need was lessening, you know, to build defences from the debris he found. They thought he was inching closer to jumping off and grabbing the drifting instead.

He wasn’t sure. He looked down at his journal. Apparently he had been writing in it.

those notes are soaring above me, but there’s blood all over my un-reach. This is the refrain. I need to re-write the refrain. I need to let it rain.

I also need to work on my rhyming.
Maybe Friday.

 

part two – he called her thursday

 

 

it’s time to sleep

the reckoning and the reasoning and the ripening and then the sneezing

the forces unmeasured in the revolt and then the squeezing

of the music into lifelines that drip with hoped unheeding

and she’s covering her ears so no one sees the internal bleeding

with the streams of the thoughts she cannot appropriate

and the dreams and the oughts that she cannot estimate

within her fevered running soul that’s forgotten where it’s been

the itching of the scratch is not at all what they said it’d seem

and she holds the words in front of her in hands that shake with dread

they’re in her own heart language but unrecognized instead

in their current configuration that has come from somewhere other

and if only she could sleep now…

 

 

 

Scrambling…

say no to clowns

through her mind’s thesaurus

she searched for other words for her wrists, singed

her edges smouldering, smoke fringed

internal edges, that is.

Scrambling through the messages in his eyes

he finds the one he wants to send her, hopefully

she’ll read it without doubt, earnestly

not doubting him, that is.

The other he, she should be doubting

he holds that glass, sun’s rays re routing

to warm her, that is

what he’s always told her…

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the end of drawing

low angle view of spiral staircase against black background
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

There’s a door down there I keep circling. A closet door in the deepest floor, and these stairs like optical illusions. Or as my mother liked to say, optical collusions.

These stairs of chalk.

 

She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.

She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.

Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?

Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.

Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.

 

 

dehydration

He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.

He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening.  He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.

I mean, the ones in your silence.

 

 

 

No One is Around, pt 1 of 2

 

"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what 
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words 
if you press your ear against the stone." 

He hated this place. But she promised it would 
be the last time. And it had started to snow. 
It would hopefully slow the others down. 

They needed to leave. He was too scared to look 
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful 
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting 
from the tears frozen on her face. 

He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.

 

 

 

Lyrics:
 mother they are coming again
 they come to shoot what we already lost
 mother they are coming again
 our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
 they come to jail the things that i have seen
 father they are coming again
 burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

Safer Ground, part two

 

Safer Ground, pt 2

 

no one is around (part one)

She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?

But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always 
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen 
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang 
instead. The words she had taught him when they met, 
years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before 
they never saw him again.
 "Little girl, there's safer ground..." 

That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

 

 

 

Lyrics:

(more…)

those middle paragraphs

Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.

She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was.  She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.

And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car

map

Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.

 

disappear

this rake isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be,

I feel your suggestions as you’re watching me

make these corrugations –

portal permutations,

at least,

they were in my dreams,

the ones

bursting from the seams

of my mind’s eye.

 

From here below periphery,

silent door’s epiphany,

you hear my eyes as you look at me…

 

one of my current ear worms. if you need a little energy boost, or a push through a portal or something…(and if this video doesn’t play for you because you don’t live in the best country on earth 😉 there is this acoustic version:)

Lyrics:

(more…)

the tears, like that sky, were blue,

balmed in a constant, gentle stream.
Filled with achingly quiet strength, healing purpose. Vibrating with the tenor of a generation.

He carefully strung his violin with them, using the instructions in the back of the book he was holding.
A journal he had found in, of all places, the attic.

His beloved father’s journal.

Sigh. What a beautiful performance.

 

Featured image: my husband’s

remember…

when I was walking around trying to avoid the mosquitoes and you strummed your guitar to the rhythm of my steps and the syncopated clouds confused you and we said it was the best thing you had ever written?

Got no regrets,
except I wish we had recorded it.

Oh,
and that I wish you were here with me…

“I don’t want to

give you any of it. None of it. Don’t even bother asking”, was the un-pep talk she gave her reflection every morning.

And the good Lord knew that her mirror needed some un-pepping.

It was greedy for power. And it had to stop.

She wallpapered over it. With the lyrics of songs, scriptures, books, poems. Her favourite people. Her favourite letters.

She stood back to gaze at her soul mirror. While eating her favourite ice cream.

 

Assiduous Respiratory Therapy

She drew back the curtains with all the care that wasn’t in the world. It was the only way she knew how. To stop the time. To restart his breathing.
(I could have that wrong – it might be, that she was the only one who knew how to do it. No one remembered. No one cared.)

The air was so thick with the calligraphy they had forced out of him. She uncurled it and  admired it in the twilight/non-time.  All things considered, it was still exquisite.

She had a new idea. And when he read her thought, he sat bolt up right, smiling.

 

 

how beautiful…

IMG_20171120_131248

 

this sunburn on her shoulders,

this sunburning up

of her psyche’s paraphernalia

while she,

she wades

in unburnt crystal waters,

her hands skimming along the tops

of ocean bred flowers,

 

inhaling the forgetting

of the sound of cockatoos.