Where we shall go from here.

Middle of a later evening, in winters birth that beats back the sun from hovering too long, along a path overgrown and thicketed lay a decision to be had. Up a hill that knows no boundaries, beyond a field that shows no limits, beneath a brookway that leads away from where we are, we must choose a direction.

You say "north". If north over the hill is our direction we must be ready for what lives beyond, though we don't know what troubles and hardships, or pleasant retreats will be found, we must identify us as steadfast and determined in our right to summit and move along. The wind may be stronger, the air colder, the rocks steeper, the chance of surviving smaller. There are risks to the north, to the hill.

"East" you say. If east through the field and further is our direction we must be prepared for a land of no limitations, one that can provide any situation, to challenge any faith and connection, to shake the grounds of any foundation, to tempt all with everything. This is a path that gardens the person, that strengthens or breaks ones approach to a life. What bends may grow strong, what never waivers may break. There are risks to the east, past the field.

"So what of the south?" The brook to the south is slow and peaceful looking, like a brook to wet your feet in, to toss a stick and watch it play in the whites of the water, it looks harmless and pure like a happy child. But what if the clouds come in, and the rain breaks the sky? The chance of what may come can fill this brook and wash us away. flush us downstream where we may never be able to stop moving, never be able to idle. never be able settle and float along together. We may be tumbled forever unless we reach a damn, and still then we may slip through. There is a chance in high waters we stick together and find our footing, a stronghold that binds us, a connection that allows us our escape from turbulent times. There are risks to the south, along the brook.

"The west?" To the west is where we have been, where we came from, where we know every rock, stick, hollow, root and tree of this path. We know what made us tired and weak, we know what made us push ourselves for more, what brightened us up, what dragged us down, what split us and brought us back together again. We know everything about the west, we can always be safe, sound, comfortable, and stable in the west. It is a place of content and security. There is very little risk to the west, there is little challenge for our lives.

"Well it is settle then." It is settled. "Anywhere but west. Maybe we will try all three. That's how we've made it this far."

Everything is hard, but so are we

I found a rainbow today
in your hand
and there's no pot of gold
to be found
and you should always know
just what i am
you will always know
I know what I am.

every bit when I'm gone.
every touch when we're as one.
in every breath that finds a way
to breathe on, I, know how to mean it.

and in you i
see these days
that will some day
come this way.
for every sight we
have to see
will in some way, be,
oh such a brilliant sight to see.

and the wind blows hard,
against these flames
just a blink of an eye
just two more days.
and the sky is full with falling stars.
everything is given.
everything is hard.

I found a rainbow today
in your hand
and there's no pot of gold
to be found
and you should always know
just what i am
you will always know
I know what I am.

we know a break will come,
it's the break of day.
know matter what may come
dove, I'll always stay.
and in that rainbow hand I'll plant today
a pot of gold for you to always hold.

not too many thorns

Looked for the girl in this world that's a part of me.
Lady you call me home.
I have picked the perfect rose.
And the the perfect rose has picked me.

So see me
spend a day
and take me
so far away
and spend your
sweet time with me
and share your
sweet lines with me

i've seem to have lost my touch
thank you so very much, for your
inspiration
i have found this hard to handle
i hope i'm so very able, to have
celebration

So see me
spend a day
and take me
so far away
and spend your
sweet time with me
and share your
sweet lines with me

Lady you call me home.
I have picked a lovely rose.
and a lovely rose has picked me.

Smile for the others (goodbye dad)

You left us here without goodbye.
I'll hold her hand as she will still cry.
Fare the well I know you're better
off where you are.

Smile for the others
that still stand here.
Look after my mother
she holds onto those sweet years.
Be afraid of no moment that you had among us.
Be in love with forever,
it's how long you'll have us.

Tonight was another night gone.
And hopeful days will soon carry on.
And awful memories will find a place in my heart.
Better to argue then be apart.

Smile for the others
that still stand here.
Look after my mother
she holds onto those sweet years.
Be afraid of no moment that you had among us.
Be in love with forever,
it's how long you'll have us.

Smile for the others.

Beautiful and Damned

Somebody should have said sorry.
I know it don't come easy.
I've been alone a lot lately.

Sometimes this house feels so lonely.
Then when you're right next to me.
I overheard someone leaving.

Sad little girl.

Your eyes, red like a rose.
Your hands, bleeding and broke.
I believe in time.
Time can heal your wounds if you can't.
You're beautiful and damned.

Daylight saves what the nighttime brings.
Can't forget our wedding rings.
I know you're right and how strong you must be
to be with me.

Sad little girl.

Your eyes, red like a rose.
Your hands, bleeding and broke.
I believe in time.
Time can heal your wounds if you can't.
You're beautiful and damned.
You're beautiful and damned.

Sad little girl.

unabashed and tranquil

it's a won't wait revolution
keeping busy doing nothing for my next illusion
stand still causes all confusions
God, you got to be on the run

first step brings the full momentum
can't stop until the next thing gets done
pills help for my minds receptions
slowing down never helped anyone

pick a pace, find your space and get on going
in your vein, take the pain so dreams are flowing
love the artificial push

next line just in time to keep eyes open
impose candy nose yeah dopes for doping
feel the fight in every rush

it's now a can't move fiasco
smokey apple still makes me slow
head back relaxes all the blood flow
God has known what this does harm.

on your knees you plead for mercy
in your hands you hold faith loosely
it's your body that shakes profusely
it's your soul that craves the calm

masterpiece

cut this cord
i'm old enough now
lock me out
i'll make my way
don't look back
cause i'm looking forward
you'll never see me
in need again

swing past the better times into the present times
take a handle on what's going on
find in the older ways some colder days
lose your grip and still march on

take all your shots with what you got love
you'd be a fool to not want it all
your claim to fame is that you will never blame
your circumstances on us all

cut this cord
i'm old enough now
lock me out
i'll make my way
don't look back
cause i'm looking forward
you'll never see me
in need again

find your peace in all the pieces
don't forget that it's always there
this puzzle isn't for the weak ones
it's for you and it's right here

one by one pull yourself together
find the way life sets you free
and in the end you can stare in wonder
see that you're a masterpiece

cut this cord
i'm old enough now
lock me out
i'll make it my way
don't look back
cause i'm looking forward
you'll never see me
in need again

Warden

I am twenty seven and live at home with my parents. Most people would think that makes me sad and a loser, and they just might be right. And like others in my place, I don't want to be in this situation, but I am. I am because I was trying to help them. I was trying to help them move into a smaller place. I was trying to help them with their drinking addictions. I was trying to help be a third person in the chaos that is their emotional relationships. I was trying to help them feel like they were doing the best they can.

The problem with that, I have no feeling that they are even trying. It doesn't appear that they even want help. They say they want help, but I think they even know they are pretending. The circumstance stands in its entirety, that the only reason they want me here is so they don't have to hate each other. They have some other sucker for the position. And this sucker isn't sure he has anything left. Hell, he spends more money then he has eating by himself at the nearest restaurant closest to his house, staring at anything, trying to not think, because thinking about how to help has brought the situation nothing.

Dad has been in and out of four rehab facilities in the past year, none of which has nay effect because "they are out to get me" he says "people who are out to get you can't help you." I agree with that, people who are out to get you can't help you. It just sucks to discover that it turns out people who are out to help him can't help him either.

He spends the majority, and this means about eighteen to twenty hours a day sleeping on his bed or on the couch in the living room. It's fine when he's in his room because I can't see him. But, when he is on the couch he just lays there wiht a blanket over his entire body, including his face and head, shaking violently underneath as if in a conscious seizure, because his body can't be calm without alcohol. That's when he disappears somewhere; woods, basement, leaves in a car, and if there is no car attempts to leave on the lawn mower until the keys are taken away, or calls a taxi, and always says he is either "taking the garbage down" or "getting gas for the lawn mower." And like magic he return stumbling through the yard and house, props himself on a chair like a pen trying to stand on end, hat cocked halfway off his head, sunglasses with a limp, eyes unopened and teeters for a while. But the shakes are gone. The most frequent words I hear him say "why don't you just stay out of my business?" Sorry dad, I'll try harder to do just that.

My mother prides herself on trying to tell me how long it's been since her last drink. She is actually proud when she makes up a number she thinks I will believe. Tonight the number was almost two weeks. I saw her stalking her way from the outside deck to the far woods of the lawn, holding something under her shirt, looking back to the house in constant alert, like a cat when it hears an unfamiliar noise, making sure no one was paying attention. She then threw something into the woods. When she came in the house I asked her if she thought doing that way a healthy action. She said she didn't think it was, but she was afraid to drink in her own house because of ridicule. I asked her how many more beers she had stashed outside somewhere. She told me none, it was the only one, and she found it in the old potting shed. She said she opened it behind the hot tub where no one could see because when she opened it it smelled so bad she didn't want anyone to have to smell it. Thanks mom for looking out for us.

My mother asked me why it was ok for me to go out and have a drink or a few drinks when I want, but it's not ok for her too, even at her own house. I tried to explain because I'm not feeding an addiction that is killing her, and seriously killing her husband. So she used the second most common phrase there is in this household. She, as well as my dad, very often "feel like they are a prisoner in their own house." That sucks. Both of my parents are prisoners in their own house. And what a prison it is. It even had a new multiple thousand dollar roof built over the deck outside so they can sit on their outdoor couches without being rained or snowed on. It's a prison that has no locked doors, big comfortable beds, the intended help of family members, and thousands of little nooks and crannies to hide alcohol, thought he favorites are inside the trash bins, inside the grass collectors of the lawn mower, storage containers in the basement, and the very tricky, kitchen cupboards where they expect no one to look. My favorite trick is when they say they bought it for me, and somehow it disappears without me ever enjoying any.

Locked in a prison in their own house. I guess it can kind of feel like that when I try and take access away in the respect of vehicles. You know the old don't let drunk people drive cars prison sentence. But even then, it doesn't always work. For example, because of the multiple number of extra car keys that have been cut so that even when taken away there is still a hidden key somewhere, my dad managed to back one of the cars halfway off a hill so that the car was completely resting on its undercarriage and the back too wheels were spinning freely. His way of fixing the situation was simple, to go inside and fall asleep, even when AAA was there towing the car away near midnight. The consequence of the incident, I was told the other car couldn't be taken so he didn't feel stranded at his own house because it wasn't his fault the other car wasn't there, and in all honesty,, he probably had no recollection of even causing the problem.

So those of you feeling locked in a prison of their own house don't worry anymore. The warden is obviously not effective and doesn't know how to run a proper prison. Good luck with rehabilitation. It will probably be more effective if you actually want help. The warden is moving out.

city living

brick red walls enclose me in
i drag along an alleyway
and scuff my boots through wind blown rubbish
lightly slowed by oily puddles
the moon stays out behind clothes lines hanging
it's crescent crown pushed against ventilation steam
hands are littered with blood and soot
hair slicked with sweat and time
my knees don't bend as they once did
that rotting smell of dumpsters filling
the pores of cardboard houses
i'll tuck myself against a curbside
sundays edition as insulation
on these late October nights
that ring the bells that autumns on us
when breath is something we now see
and cracked hands crumble brushed on concrete
the floor of the city shrinks and hardens
we eat tomorrow when we really need to
tonight we sleep like restless inmates
the day before we're all set free

so they believe it

in our finest moments we settle ourselves
to thinking of what we want
where we want to go
where i see myself in days along
the choices that set us on our way
to where we hope to be
the magic of a chance encounter
to lay beneath an umbrella tree
i've still not seen

and be bold
so we are remembered
and be loud
so we are heard
and be seen
so those take notice
and be us
so they believe it

little lady curls

little lady lay down curls unwound
a call to me clearly unknown
careful little lady claws come out
and these paws are all about
and come someday i'll take us home
and both are folks will be well known
be well known

and i'll pick you flowers
but i want you to pick them with me
we can love for hours
and all the days in between

little lady lay down we're here to rest
i don't know how to pray
but i know how to feel with hope and faith
i'll flick your hair and grab your little ankles
lay a blanket down so we can soak some sun
have you laughing with my arm around dear
folks will be well known by everyone
well known by everyone

and come to long i'll ask you for a wedding
and come to long you'll ask me for a babe
little flowers tucked in little lady curls
these little things will become big someday
and i can tell my mother the reason why i'm smiling
and there's a chance i can tell my dad the same
and your folks someday will know that we are living
folks someday will know that we belong
folks someday will thank us for our patience
little lady looks good on my left arm

Dando

been away
i've been away too long
I lost my way as I ran away
walking backwards trudging on

past a field
with a lone growing baby tree
sat right down and smelled the dirt
that helps to stand this baby tree

across the way i see a line
of trees and brush that hold me out
scratch my arms as I walk in
never to come back again

I am one with the darkness seen
flesh and bone and everything
coloured roof of plush red pine
fire sky come evening time

*i've been gone before,
how can i be gone again
my dear friend*

Dando

Abigail and friends

my dad he told me to go
and leave him alone today
he said "boy you are asking for
the belt on my closet door."
I didn't want to be there
just wanted someone to care
wanted someone to want
to have me around

a lost little homeless boy
bag full of photographs
of little perfect families
cut from the magazines
he didn't want to be there
just wanted someone to care
wanted someone to want
a picture of him

you never raised me
the way I would have raised you

and soft spoken Abigail
was left to fight for herself
her pink little tattered dress
hung dragging in such a mess
she didn't want to be there
just wanted someone to care
wanted someone to want
to buy a pretty dress for her

you never raised me
the way I would have raised you

people in this world left unrelated
children and adults all left abandoned
people make the choice, don't complicate this
people make the choice just come and save us

you never raised me
the way I would have raised you

yes oh yes

yes oh yes
I've found my way to you
you found me to

sometimes you feel just like the sky
then i am a cloud and I know that I
am everywhere surrounded just by you

heads are low we hide our time
lay on our backs and skip in the sky
you say that I am the best for you

come and live with both my hands
I'll find a way so I always can
tomorrow is a day we will always have

shake like a lamb the night before
speed through the states with you in store
i know this heart has been split in two

yes oh yes
I've found my way to you
you found me to

shooting stars and wishes made
the reasons why we are today
i love the way you kick about mushrooms

stolen nights that lovers share
open windows everywhere
now I know that you protect me to

popsicles and drowsy teas
little thoughts that show to me
Alice keeps me warm when we're apart

heavy eyes are glowing green
you're everything that i have seen
can you love as much as i love too

yes oh yes
I've found my way to you
you found me to

darling lady you have saved me
taken from me everything
that shouldn't live inside of me

Ins and outs and whys

You see i know this girl, and it's easily assumed
i told her how i feel, she told me "same to you,
and I'm glad to be,
but I'm just afraid of my family."
See that's ok, i let her know,
that I'd never let her go,
and hold onto for such a time,
until the day we can be alive.

For the first time in my life
I know the ins and outs and whys.
For the last time in my life,
I pull a little bit down, down by my side.

And she's off for a while,
and I'm off for a while.
She said "I'll be here when you get home,
where I am is your home."
She makes me feel a little bit nervous,
and I hope I'm one to deserve this,
Sitting high on my chair,
tangled lost in her dark curls of hair.
I'll be back in day, just now,
and I'll see you some time, some how.
I've got you with me in the mean time,
just hanging heavy in my mind.

For the first time in my life
I know the ins and outs and whys.
For the last time in my life,
I pull a little bit down, down by my side.

In my past is where you are you say.
I'll slow down as you find your way.
And have your love from another sea.
Watch your love hold onto me.

For the first time in my life
I know the ins and outs and whys.
For the last time in my life,
I pull a little bit down, down by my side.

My little lactaid girl

stepping outside on this lazy night.
and i'm staring at the stars again in a big black sky.
and how you laugh when there is nothing else to do.
and how i smile thinking of you.
Little curly haired wizard just making my life again,
be the best it has ever been.

Don't disappear on me this time.

My shirt tucked in I'm looking smart on my walk,
tonight i see myself a part of every little spark.
You shake like a tambourine in the hold of my arms,
in the hold of my loving arms.
left handed trickster you are to the world,
my turquoise loving lady, my daisy crazy girl.

Don't disappear on me this time.

Oh mr. man in the sky,
make her the reason for my life.
oh mr. man in the sky,
get out of the way, let me have a try.
Darling you are a happy life.

Don't disappear on me this time.

Call me twice so I'm alive.
Darling I'm alive tonight.

What we live for

Polluted by the fact we think we make our own decisions we are no longer clear. Fact is, people matter. People in our lives matter. People we don't know matter. So we can not make decisions for ourselves, they all have consequences. All have effect. What is your effect on others? I can say I don't know mine. For some, specific people, my effect is real, though i know not its full interpretation by others, i know it's genuine. For others, those i know half heatedly, my effects are half hearted and are clearly so. I can not judge my intent by others reaction. That is far-fetched and wrongly assumed.

All we do has purpose for someone else. We are pure and positive, we bring lighter times to others. We are stale and uncleansed, others regurgitate that agitation that is the taste of us. I have been both, that i know. At times, i can be one in the same, even so to the same person. It is a stunning power we posses, to be so positive and negative in unison on a single soul. They harbour love and hatred in the same breath. One sentence they appreciate you for a job well done, and in the same breath of stink abhor you for your discipline and monitoring.

I chased a car down my driveway the other day just so I could catch a ride I was not welcomed on by my own father. We agreed we would go to a store and purchase a case of water together. As i carried out one last chore in the house i saw the car leaving with my absence known. I screamed from the porch that I had been forgotten and saw the cold deliberate act of a closing window telling me I was unwanted. In boots, the best of shoes, I chased that damn thing down and caught it as it was pulling out of the driveway. It didn't stop until I had half a leg in the car, door opened, as it was accelerating to fend me off.

Then, down the road, I was told it was merely a drive to throw the trash out at the end of the driveway. I made the not so subtle observation that we were well past the end of the driveway and well up the road, which was not well taken, and instantly caused me to be the intolerant negative party. So. against a fathers will, it was only water purchased, though I did splurge a bit for a purple Gatorade to boot.

The dynamics we have make life real. Tolerable? Well that's for us to decide upon ourselves. But I can't sit on a chair and watch role models kill themselves. It isn't in me. Decisions are not our own. We choose to make others a part of our lives, we choose to make them a part of everything.

Those of you having a tea parity right now. Thank you for choosing to be a part of mine. I love you.

Victory tomorrow

How many days do we have left?
At what time do you say goodbye?
This liquid life can't surely last forever.
This liquid life can't surely go one.
And tomorrow we part for some weeks now,
but we've been there before.
You've left, you've broken the rules, you say,
the rules don't apply to you.

I'll be here when you return.
Hoping that you have cleaned up your act.
It's not just you your dragging down.
It's all of us failing to help.
We can't forgive so many times.
I can't take so many lies.
One last break in our ties,
it's not the way to say goodbye.

Why by the bottle should we ruin all these years?
How did we get here?
Where are we going?

It's taken me the world around,
to come back and sit back down.
It's taken me a run around,
my eyes turned on but my hands shut down.
Is it now the quality?
I know we've given up hope on the quantity.
Hands down, let's let our guards down.

Why by the bottle should we ruin all these years?
How did we get here?
Where are we going?

No more threats they all mean the same.
You make rules for your own game.
You never lose, never seem ashamed.
We're all the only losers here.

Why by the bottle should we ruin all these years?
How did we get here?
Where are we going?

A bit better spent

Rolling down that ocean road.
Wore the names out on both our name tags.
It's been a busy month don't you know.
We should spend our time a bit better spent.

On this weekend I'll be by your side.
Come this weekend baby , we be.

Under a tree you take my conversation.
And on a couch I sit with my hand alone on my knee.
We are miles apart when we share a few brief moments.
That's not enough for you.
Not enough for me.

On this weekend I'll be by your side.
Come this weekend baby , we be.

I've made you such a little gift.
I've put together such a little gift.
You've given me such a great little gift.
You have given yourself to me.

Grant Phelan

Often think of Grant Phelan.
See, he painted with both hands.
He was a special kind of friend.
He'd burn your chair and then ask you to sit down.

And he gave me his hat, and it fit just as it should have
until the day i lost that hat.

He knew the storms before they blasted.
Stayed outside while all they lasted.
Watched people die in earth's disasters.
He'd walk out unharmed.

There was the year of class wide burrow.
We all fled to our own sorrows.
He asked for only one straw to borrow.
He kept himself alive.

And he gave me his hat, and it fit just as it should have
until the day i lost that hat.

And someone came and called him homeward.
Bound he was a suited showman.
Find the hole in every omen.
He'd so shake the nerves of Christ.

Grant Phelan was one great (mystery)
(Mystery)for this town he played the blister.
He'd shake your hand and deep your sister.
You could roll no greater dice.

And he gave me his hat, and it fit just as it should have
until the day i lost that hat.

a dream lived

peek through that little key hole.
hoping for a glimpse of no more,
but you.
into our home I'll step forward.
into your arms i am homeward.
you welcome me sweet love.

and i thank this whole world for you.
and i see this whole life with you.

in my pocket I've come to find see,
a lovely poem you have written for me.
i can see our doorknob turning.
in this man a love is burning.
and I see you as you see me.

Small town connections

“Shitty things just keep happening, you know?” Says The Man.

“I know.” Replies Agatha. “I can’t even eat milk chocolate anymore.”

“I am the opposite. I’m fine with milk chocolate, but it’s the darker chocolate that I can’t eat. It gives me fevers in the stomache.”

“Dark chocolate is the better chocolate for you. I like to buy two of those Lindt balls and eat them. NO more than two though.”

Old Joe considers his input. “Two. Yeah right, I’ve never seen just two.”

“Oh stuff it Joe. That’s why I never give you one.”

Mary talks to herself and all others that care to listen just off in the corner of the small diner. “You know, if you spray bugs with soapy water they can’t fly away. It’s too heavy for them you see, and then you can kill them after.”

“What?” Old Joe replies. “What are you on about Mary?”

“These bugs. Soapy water slows them down.”

“Just roll up a newspaper and swat the pests away.”

“That never works on you Joe.” Agatha remarks.

“Ah stuff it Aggie.”

“I went to an Italian thanksgiving once and there was so much food.” Says The Man.

“So much food.” Agatha agrees.

“I ate so many desserts and sides of food. I can’t eat white mashed potatoes and butternut squash together though.”

“Oh yes not together.” Agatha agrees.

“It just doesn’t sit well after that.” Reports The Man.

“You can also use hairspray for the bugs.” Mary continues.

“Yeah, but hairspray stinks, and it is also sticky.” Agatha contradicts.

“You’re stinky and sticky.” Old Joe laughs.

“Sticky yes. Stinky no.” Agatha corrects, as the sun shines through the window and highlights her recently shaved chin.

“You know what I eat when I am depressed and upset?”

“Lots of chocolate?” Poses Agatha.

“Everything and anything.” Says The Man. “I’d eat the refrigerator door.”

“You must be depressed and upset all the time then.” Joe comically implies.

”Now you don’t mean that Joe.” Agatha demands.

“Of course I do Aggie. That’s why I said it.”

“Now Joe that’s just not right.”

“He’s right Agatha. These days just don’t seem to be getting better. Shitty things just keep following me around.” Says The Man.

“Well. Life only slows you down so that you have a chance to speed up again.” Mary kindly says.

“Yeah. Unless someone’s there to hit you with a rolled up newspaper when you’re slowed down.” Joe concludes.

All nod in agreement.

I have a small bathroom. The shower is over the toilet and the sink. Just lovely.

I arrived in Cairo 17 hours ago, after 15 hours of travelling. I taxied to a hostel off of Talat Harb Street called the Regent House Hotel. It is not a hotel. I had about 500 australian dollars still on me from a few months back, and i gave most of it to Atef El-Fayumi, the owner of the hostel so he can keep me busy for the next days touring around the city, out to Giza and the pyramids, dinner on a party boat on the Nile with belly dancers, some time at museums and the like. Then I realized, that's not what i like to do, I do not like touristy crap, and much prefer making my own mistakes and having my own adventures.

Atef El-Fayumi wasn't pleased when I took most of my money back from him, I am still going to sleep out in the desert one night and i need a ride, so i let him keep some of it. I asked his driver Ali if he would drive me around cairo for a while, and i gave him some money to do just that.

There are over 30 million people in this city, but, the city looks abandoned from every angle. Mile after mile of apartment buildings, endless brick and concrete slums with rebar protruding from every wall. Empty glassless windows and broken clay balconies, all still littered with peoples washing, because every building, though dead and decaying, is full with people you can't see. They are all on the streets and in the markets, and selling car parts, grilled corn, sugar cane juice, and plastic bags and combs at every street corner and the middle of every road. Hookah bars that pour into the street, donkeys, horses and bare footed children running across highways. It is full of something. Some call it life.

Ali was driving me toward Giza and the pyramids, so I could see them at sunset, but instead we pulled into a side street that had an essence store on it, called Golden Essence. There were thousands of blown glass bottles and jars for storing perfumes, and spiced body oils, and aftershave scents; even a spiced body oil made of animal blood called Red Dusk, which feels and smells like sweet heat. I was offered tea and was asked to smell over twenty different fragrances. It is custom that no matter where you arrive, the Egyptian welcome is an offering of drink and to be told to "be at home." I like that, not feel at home, but be at home.

I enjoyed my time in the essence shop and then wlked further down the dirt road into a papyrus store, where they show you how the older civilizations would make paper, using the ancient techniques. It was a sight. I learned of paintings that depicted the egyptian calendar through people in pairs and holding their arms in unison, and i saw paintings of men being tried in the face of their gods, weighing their heart against a feather to see if they enter paradise or hell. The boy who told me these things was passionate and honest.

Ali then drove me closer to the pyramids but we stopped at a friend of his house instead so they could pray. I was offered tea and stood on the empty, broken brick and clay rooftop drinking tea, watching the men on the dirt alley below pray together, the younger boys training horses and walking them to the stalls that comprised the bottom floor of the house, as the sun set on the egyptian land. Between my view of the pyramids and my roof top perch was a game of soccer being played under dim lights on an all dirt field, enclosed by walls of bricks and mortar. Some of the men had shoes and socks, some just bare foot, but all involved.
It was a pleasant was to say hello to Cairo, as if we were old friends embracing after a long time away.

And back through the lively city that is empty from every angle of every busted building we drove. The sky was dark, but the streets were even more full of people than earlier. We had to abandon the car because the streets were undrivable. It was a friday night on Talat Harb street during the summer. It's not a time for driving. I left Ali at the hostel and walked alone amongst thousands of people for about two hours. Every one of those people knew I wasn't from that street. Every one of those people knew I was not of their religion or culture. Every one of those people knew I was in the wrong place. And every one of those people made me feel welcomed to their lives.

But it is bloody hot here.

Window face

Starts, little black nights are the place to be
an everlasting nightmare for all to see.
Pressing on your little pale window face
I can see right through you.
Away from the lights, away from the sights,
away from the little gray pecking birds.
They can feed without you.

What does it mean when we can't change a thing?
Is it better to run, or are we better off hiding?

It continues to be a half hearted affair
with cornerstone cocktails and a feathery glare.
My clothes are off-coloured and my comments don't seem to fit anymore.
I'm left looking through you,
my little pale window faced girl.
I'm left to see through you.

Ends, with the last words that I know.
A reason to run, above all, a reason to go.
It's time to clean,
you little pale window faced girl.
It's getting hard to see through you.
Maybe I don't want to see through you.

Life with a wife 5.

LYNNETH

Where to begin with my little princess (she would kill me if I ever called her my little princess, actually, she will probably not speak with me for two weeks if she ever reads this, but I doubt she will, she has no interest in what I do, ever)? The only time in her life she has liked the lighter colours, pinks, yellows, oranges and whites, was when she was a baby and could not yet voice her own opinion (and come to think of it, I do not think she very much liked them then as well, she spent most of her time crying and being displeased, until nighttime, when it was dark and black, and she would sleep so soundly). She has the most beautiful golden hair, and that is where her colour ends. Black shoes, black dresses (her mother is thankful she at least wears dresses), black pants, shorts, shirts, hair pieces. She has some dark green and brown clothes, but she wears them infrequently. The only other colours she wears are found on her feet. She wears striped socks. Yellows, greens, purples, reds and blues, but all coupled with black stripes. I will say, for an eight year old, she has an incredible fashion eye for footwear. She always picks out, what I think, are very intelligent and clever shoes, even if they are always black.

It should be understood that, my, our, children have very good manners. Lynneth is not an exception here, she is very well mannered. Knowing this, she can be quite rude and selfish; if it is not her way, she just leaves and spends all of her time with herself. She refers to and addresses my wife and I by our first names, which we never appreciate, and she likes to swear and use cuss words all of the time (never spoken words, but she writes them on every loose piece of paper in our house, and on every page of her school notepads and homework, which neither her teachers, nor her parents can stop her from doing. Personally, I kind of find it funny, but don’t tell my wife). She doesn’t like music, and when some music is playing, she again, leaves the room and spends time with herself. She likes to write, but she does not let anyone read it, which is odd to me. She enjoys reading very much, but she doesn’t like to talk about what she is reading, or even share her books when she is finished for that matter (I can only assume every page has a swear word or horrific doodling drawn upon it). And she has this terrible habit of just looking at you (well not you, but people, especially her brother, mother, and me, until that person feels quite uncomfortable and finds something better to do in some other place). Oh, and, before I forget, as with my other child, she does not like her given name, and wishes to be called, Lynneth (my other child doesn’t wish to be called Lynneth, but you know that already. It just sounded like one could assume that based on the way I have written it).

Her given name, Brooke Lynne W., is just not what she wants. I like that name, I created it, and thought my lovely little princess would very much appreciate it. It is clever (like Brooklyn in New York City, but not just Brooklyn, but split up into two first names; that’s good) and she should be thankful to have such a lovely name, but she is quite the opposite. She thinks it is, in her words, ‘regrettable and sad’ because she, nor I for that matter, has never visited, and quite truly, never wishes to travel to and visit New York City, and likes nothing about it. Also, she doesn’t like the name Brooke, I do not know why, probably because I thought of gifting it to her as a name, and she is okay with altering her middle name, Lynne, to make it sound more mysterious; thus, Lynneth. She has a habit of walking around, no matter what she is doing, and especially if she is just staring at you, with her arms crossed, as if she is constantly upset about something (mostly me, I think). To me, that makes her a closed person, not wanting affection or attention, and not welcoming any person into her weird little world.

There is not one girl her age, nor has there been through any of her ages, that has tried to have, nor allowed, a friendship with our daughter. And, she has never looked for another person, ever, to share her time with, not even her brother, anymore. Saying that, she seems content, she often looks angry, but she seems content. She very rarely complains, like her mother, and she just voices her disliking for things, and gives us, which is promising but sometimes heartbreaking, her honest opinion of everything. The boys, on the other hand (and this for some reason is most always the case for weird, cannot touch, self-assured and bad-ass girls) for the last year or so, always try to spend time with her at school, which she, of course, refuses, which just makes them even more desirable (god damn sick little eight year olds leave my daughter alone, that is what she wants).

She is very, very pretty, this is undeniable; she takes after me, well, mostly her mother. Even with all of the black, and crossed arms, and cuss words, she has the beauty of a little princess, though she will never be one, and it is not because there isn’t a man out there to be her prince, but because, she just doesn’t care for one (which I am quite pleased about. I am a bit scared however that this stage will turn into the next likely stage, when she matures into a young woman, which, regrettably, I hear, is unprotected, angry sexual adventures with multiple, disheveled partners. I am afraid for those years in her life, though I would be quite pleased if that was the case for her older brother. It is just more socially acceptable for that to be the life of a teenage boy, I think).

I’ll let you know how they turn out.

Life with a wife 4.

LADY BOY
Sir Nicholas Mitchell (I do hate my wife sometimes, and her humour) W. is my son, our son. (You will in time know the W., but for now, since it is my given surname, and you are by no means prepared to meet me yet, W. will suffice.) He is not really a Sir, nor I for that matter, but it makes me feel better to call him a Sir for the sake of his underdeveloped masculinity. He dislikes this to the fullest, and much rather prefers the dreaded, which I should have seen coming, I take full blame for this carelessness, Nick. As in knickknack (without the k of course), as in some small object or trinket hardly cared for and just as well tossed in the rubbish or lost in a box of other once magical now stale memories forgotten, rather than cherished and appreciated for what it is, or in his case, what he may, hopefully, someday be.

So, for now, it is Nick, which, though not my favorite of nicknames, is much better than his last choice of personal recognition, for three long years, Lady Boy (and this is not the cuter and probably more profitable name for a seven year old, younger brother of Ladies Man). Again, I must take most of the responsibility for this awkward stage in my son’s life (his entire life has been awkward mind you, but this was I think the low point, or at least in my eyes, so far) because before I met his lovely, beautiful mother, and during the first six years of are celebrated marriage, I had a dog, which became our dog, which became the families dog, and I am forever sorry to my dog for letting that happen. The last years in a canine’s life should be spent fat, tired, lazy, cared for, overfed good foods, peaceful, and full of good old fashion scratching. It should not be filled with whining toddlers that pull their ears, poke them in their fat bits, try to ride on their aging, arthritic backs like a small horse, roll balls and toys at them when they are sleeping, poke fun at their graying hair and small non-cancerous lumps, and call them ‘bad dog’ when they nip them (that is a good dog). Poor Lady Guinevere Pentland. Yes, that was her name, Lady for short, it’s a good name for a dog, nothing ridiculous and dog-like, such as scratch, or fido, or bowser; not at all, a good solid name for a good solid dog, like George Burns, Samuel Cats, or Spotticus Von Broken Arrow of Stoneybrook Farms (which was my dog, of course, before Lady Guinevere Pentland).

Lady disliked my children immensely, which I was proud of her for, she lived a long wonderful life and didn’t need two disobedient, ragged little humans ruining her last years, which, sadly, I think they may have. Sir Nicholas on the other hand, and his little sister, loved Lady infinitely, that is why they poked her fat bits, tried to ride her like a horse, and rolled balls and toys at her whilst she slept, because they wanted to spend every last minute with her. They cried more than I did when she passed, which, mostly, is because children cry over everything. My son, our son I should say, just to put some of the blame on my wife as well, decided, in Lady’s memory, he would then want to be called Lady Boy, because Lady was a dog and was sometimes called Lady Dog, and he was a boy, so Lady Boy should be his name, and, I swear, that is the only thing he would answer or respond to for three years, even in school, which destroyed all of his chances for a normal social life until, probably, the age of thirty, and only then if nobody he knew when he was younger brings it up. God damn Lady Boy, he would have made a great bastard if I didn’t love his mother so much (just to be clear here, I love my son, very much, but there are times in life when the people who you care for most have that wonderful ability to drive you to life’s edge, or in his case, since he is too young to drive, walk with you very slowly and impatiently, asking ‘are we there yet?’ the entire time until you have to carry him there, set him down, and by then, you want to jump).

And that was just his nickname for three years.

He is two years older than his sister, so all that means is my wife and I have had two extra years to complain about him, which, interestingly, I do not hear her complain much about either one of them (she does of course complain sometimes, about them being slow in the mornings getting ready for school, or if they forget to tell her something their teachers were trying to relay, or if they wear their shoes on the nicely cleaned floors, but never about their character flaws, and they have many, which I find either concerning that she does not see them, or remarkable that she does not let them visually bother her). There are, however, and obviously unmistakable, characteristics about our son that cannot be overlooked when one is trying to get a more personal idea of him as a human being.

At the age of two he began to sit in chairs, but not like a two year old. He would sit straight up, perfect posture, never slouching; though his baby fat was trying to pull him into a less proper position, Nick wouldn’t have it. I remember I bought him a toy truck once for some special occasion, I do not remember for what, and he looked at it, shook his head in appreciation, and sat on the lounge room couch next to my wife and watched weekend soap operas for about two hours, sitting straight up mind you. At the age of four when most children his age were outside getting dirty, hitting each other with sticks, catching frogs and throwing rocks, he wished to be inside watching over his younger sister, playing dolls with her, though he was doing most of the playing, and helping her figure the house out (in the mind and eyes of a two year old, I can only assume, a house is a very big issue to take hold of and understand). At five, when he was enrolled in a pre-school program (which we know as kindergarten) he refused to sleep during nap time. He, rather, chose to draw colourful pictures of birds, flowers, and horses, and he was quite good at it. Also, he refused to drink milk and juices, only water and tea would please him.

As I said before, he was, and continues to be, not a fan of sport. When I would go out of my way to sign him up for a sport and drive him to practices he would just not participate (I saw him once during a soccer practice let the ball roll completely by him as he walked over and picked a butterfly up that was resting on a dandelion). But the one thing that got to me most, was, his lack of interest in eating meat (and that is not an ironic foreseeing). My boy (my little Lady Boy) loved vegetables, fruits, and pastas, and would, literally, become sick if I asked him to try a hamburger, steak, salmon, or hotdog. He is just not someone I find myself easily relating with.

His first year in school, year one for those paying attention, was mostly the same as the year before with the drawings and tea drinking and sitting up straight, and impeccable etiquette. Though, he was much more evolved, intellectually, than the remaining of his squeaky voiced, nose running classmates. My wife and I would often receive praise from his teacher for our tender, thoughtful, and obviously attentive upbringing of our son, which I would always take much credit for. Then came the three, very long, Lady Boy years, where he remained top of his class academically (falling further and further behind socially. His sister even began making fun of him at this time, only in public though, and mostly because she was nearly as socially awkward as he in the eyes of fellow students, and joining in with them made her a bit more normal, but not much closer to friendship, and for the most part she didn’t care either way. Credit to our son, he never let any harsh word or put down ever bother him, he was quite impressive in that way). And that brings us up to the past three months, where he has made major improvements in life. Well, he has changed one thing. He no longer wishes to be called upon as Lady Boy. Nick, he says, to my absolute pleasure, will be just fine for now.

Life with a wife 3.

FACT OF THE MATTER

I can say with the last honest bone in my body (it really isn’t a bone, it is an organ that fills itself with blood and ambition, sometimes, quite comically, at the most inappropriate of moments, like on an airplane filled with passengers, or in church, or yet worse in a confessional; it’s like asking for forgiveness for a sin you are at present committing) that I am the one person in this world that was created (or evolved) for my wife’s life mate and partner, and she for mine.

I do not believe that there is one person out there, wherever there is, but in this instance we are talking of earth and humans, that is the one and only match for someone else. I know many couples that are a perfect marital match for one another, though they seem quite miserable together. I know countless other couples that are great companions, but have an absolutely horrid marriage. People can fit other people’s needs and desires with much effort. People can stand one another. People can make shit not stink. I’m just glad my wife and I do not need to do any of those things. For some reason, I am not sure how or why I was able to stumble upon such a cherished situation, I found the person I can be quiet, loud, stupid, angry, happy, drunk, and honest with and feel comfortable, and my wife has found the same.

We weren’t as lucky in terms of a perfect family though, or at least not our idea of a perfect family, but we are still working on the definition of perfect to make our family fit. Our son, lovely as he can sometimes be, is not a hardworking, popular, passively intellectual who likes sport with his friends over comic books and tea with his younger sister. And his younger sister, our daughter, who doesn’t like tea with her older brother and is much more sporty than he could ever be, is not the little, curly haired princess who likes being sweet and girly as her parents had hoped for her to be. She prefers wearing black over pink, and, at the age of eight, already calls myself and my wife by our given first names, which makes us cringe to hear, which is why I am sure she does it. Our family works, it has for ten or so years now (when I say works, I mean tends to break down but can always be temporarily managed and tied back together) and I’m told by older parents I know, we are nearly already half way to ridding them from our everyday presence anyway, and to reflect back on it, the first ten years haven’t really been that difficult, for me anyway. My wife always seems a bit put off when I say that in front of our couple-friends, and for some reason the man always agrees with yours truly, and the woman tends to take the general eye-rolling approach and light scoff that the Mrs. tends to wield.

As for the ins and outs of it (that phrase has always made me a bit nervous, it takes too much of a sexual connotation, in my mind at least, to drop so casually in conversation that really has little to do with the idea of being in and then out of something) we struggle along as well as we can. It would be a bit easier, I feel, if our children were a bit more sociable and had friends that wished to spend time with them; it has never occurred that either child has ever been asked to spend the night, as a friendly sleep-over, at another child’s (parents) house. And when I or my wife suggest to another child’s mother or father it would be good for the social growth of both children if they were to endure one another’s company for an evening, my wife, or myself, most often is the case, need to retrieve our child, or return the other parents child before the night concludes itself. Fact of the matter is our children just seem to be in a stage of life where they are just unpleasant to be around, for all parties ever in their company.

Life with a wife 2.

THE LIE

Twelve years ago I was sitting at a pub in California, San Francisco to be more exact, and even more specific The Whiskey Bar in the Mission District, when in walked this girl. I liked this bar because it had a billiards table. It had good beer (yes I use to drink in public, sometimes alone, when I was young and foolish, and for the most part horny and self-doubting- I was going to say underconfident but it is not a word, though confident and overconfident are. I just refuse to ever use the word unconfident, it sounds ridiculous), the finest last minute, late night women in the area, and every so often, once a year maybe, would produce a female patron as lovely to look at as the one who had walked in on that specific evening. That night, in particular, I wasn’t there to find a girl, really, I was there to get over a girl, and when I saw this woman I was over the girl, and to this day I can’t remember her name.

It turns out, this beautiful woman, who so pleasingly intruded upon my foraging and mating fields, was actually meeting someone, one of her girlfriend’s, brother’s friends, on the dreaded ‘blind date.’ It was lucky for her that I knew this girlfriend’s, brother’s friend from seeing him frequenting my drinking and hunting establishment (I really was a terrible person in those days), and I knew for certain he was not a suitable date for this woman. I found out that it was a ‘blind date’ a few moments after she walked in. I raised my eyes at her, as I did with most women I knew I would never encounter socially, and, as luck would have it, she walked over to me. She asked me if my name was Mitchell, which it is thankfully not, and I replied yes. She told me she had never been on a ‘blind date’ before and was a bit nervous. I told her she did not need to be nervous, and that I was a great guy. When I saw her reaction to this I apologized immediately, and I told her I say many stupid things when I am nervous, which I lied and said I was as well, which thankfully relieved her.

And knowing that the real Mitchell would of course show up about eight minutes later, as he always did at seven thirty on a Friday night, I apologized again to this diamond for asking her to meet me at such a horrible establishment and hired a cab to take us to a more suitable date-type restaurant, which I was not allowed into because of my attire, so we just walked around San Francisco falling in love. I don’t know how I did it, or what the hell I said, maybe just piled the lies on, but it worked. At the later end of the evening, after a lovely little meal at a Thai restaurant, we, as luck would have it (I must say I was quite a lucky man that night, and still am today- two more days of leniency) walked by The Whiskey Bar. I asked her if it was a nice enough looking place for a late night drink. She told me she didn’t even want to enter the place earlier when we met, she was glad she did though, but just then, it was a perfect pub to have a late night drink. Even more to my growing luck, as we sat at the bar and ordered our drinks, which I of course offered to pay, but was regrettably four dollars short, so I needed to borrow a five dollar note from my girl, there was a disorderly fellow at the end of the bar who in one motion fell off the bar stool and vomited on himself before he hit the floor.

I again apologized to the woman. She asked me why the apology. I pointed to the disorderly man on the floor in his own vomit and said, in all actuality, that is Mitchell, I am not Mitchell, I just saw you and fell instantly in love with you and I knew how much of a drunk and a fool Mitchell was (which was another lie, because as I knew for truth, Mitchell rarely ever drank, he just liked playing pool, but on that particular night he had too much to drink. This was because his friend had set him up with his sister’s beautiful, kind girlfriend on a ‘blind date’, and she never showed up. This made Mitchell very sad and very eager to forget his sadness by drinking heavily, which as I know, is never the right remedy for sadness. That is why they make beautiful wives like mine, to make sad men happy- add a day there) and that he could never make her as happy as I intended to do. She forgave me, mostly because the physical condition her actual ‘blind date’ was in, and we married about ten months later. It was the greatest lie I have ever told.

Life with a wife 1.

MEET MY WIFE

It pains me, not completely mind you, to say that my wife is beautiful. I can say that surely, for it is the general consensus among a watchful eye, and even more agreeable to, what can we call, a less refined majority. Though, saying she is beautiful as a general consensus is leaving out the truth of the matter. Pretty, she is, yes, and a finely shaped body as well. She is sweet and well thought, kind and incalculably, what is the word, caring. But those are features of her persona, not her person. Back to the basics of the female body. Any man, or woman if they were honest, would be severely appreciative of her looks and physical demeanor, yet, knowing this, in terms of front page women’s and teenage girl magazines, she is not perfect. She is not bone thin with little abs that are just organs bulging through skin because there is nothing else to fill space. She does not have an ass and chest that are as high and firm as the emaciated plastic dolls that grace these same published covers. She does not look like she is a curvaceous sixteen year old girl, or is it less creepy to say young woman? She is, what cover page publishers would call ‘a bit off.’ And they would be wrong.

When, before, I said it pains me to say she is beautiful, I am not physically affected in anyway. It is, more or less, (which is just a horrible contradictory phrase, I could just as well say it is ‘equal’ or ‘even’, or even ‘neutral’, which makes very little sense at all) a psychological battle. She is beautiful, which means others find her beautiful, which means they find her attractive, which means they want to take her away from me and our wonderful relationship. She knows this and further throws arms against me by playing into the ‘you best be sweet and nice to me, you know there are a lot of men out there who would be extremely happy with me as their wife’ side of things. That, I dislike immensely about my wife. And to this, I often reply ‘well that is until they get to know you. Come to think of it, I am not sure why I am still married with you’ which as you would expect never sits well with the Mrs. and usually grants me a quarrelsome nights rest with the dogs on the lounge room couches. As it goes, I love her, and would gleefully demolish and happily dismantle any man or woman that attempts my wife’s seduction.

She is, however, as lovely as she is brutal, which I wishfully assume is the same for all wives. A happy marriage is not always blowjobs and back rubs, and come to think of it, it hasn’t been for eleven years and sixty-two days now, which, coincidentally, was the day we were married. I like to think that if you spoke with any married man at a pub and asked how his wife was, before the first beer she would be ‘lovely, a good mother, working hard to help support the family, still good in bed, and a great cook.’ After four or five beers she miraculously and horrifyingly becomes a ‘cold, bitter, leeching, demanding, money-guzzling wretch of a woman who can no longer even make a good bowl of soup and has prettier, nicer friends than she.’ And just as shockingly, after three or so more beers, she transforms into a ‘beautiful, vicious little sex kitten with all the right moves and characteristics to keep a man happy for the rest of his life, and is probably at home right now with a well cooked plate of steak and potatoes lying in bed in that thin little night-top eager for her big man to come home. And the dishes are probably done as well.’ Though, after that many drinks it probably would come out more like ‘that woman, I mean wife, ahhhhh, no woman, is good. Good food. Sex, hahahha. Good.’ And all that really means is ‘she will not be too angry when I come home inebriated at midnight in a taxi cab when I said I will drive myself home safely at ten. And I will be the one doing dishes in the morning. And I will be the one who wakes up at five in the morning to take our two very annoying, very little and embarrassing dogs for a morning walk.’

This is why I do not drink. I do not wish to, and I do not need to, because, I know all of those wonderful little things about my very lovely wife before the end of an expensive night out with someone I probably do not want to be with anyway, when I could have spent that money to buy my wife a very thoughtful day at the spa and a bouquet of flowers (or more realistically, eggs, steak, fill my truck up with petrol, and a nice bottle of wine; I lied, I do drink, just not in public and only with my wife, and maybe with a friend or two at my house or theirs, or maybe, on special occasions, a restaurant or pub. Piss off).

Returning to my wife’s brutality, it is not so much brutal as it is demanding. And, really, it is not so much demanding as she just wants me to play my role as husband and father, and to live up to the oath I took (I say oath instead of marital vows because up in front of all of those people, marrying such a beautiful woman I felt like a criminal being persecuted for stealing something divine, and I needed to be completely honest in the sense of reason and the law in my efforts to be legitimate for this diamond of a woman- that will keep her happy for a few days if she reads this) when we were married, which, reasonably understood, is reasonable to understand. And I try my best, I do, I swear it. She very little complains of my laziness, mostly because I am so equipped at masking it, and is often appreciative when she asks me to perform some task, and I have, indeed, already performed it, or at least took credit for having one of the children do it. I am a good husband. The Best? Who is to qualify such things? But I will say there is hundreds of average women out there in the world who would very much welcome my companionship.

So, are we happy? She says she is. I believe her because if I didn’t I would be a mental wreck and would by all means unintentionally, but quite obviously ruin our relationship with jealous outbursts, harboring of ill, semi-destructive thoughts, and a constant need of self and co-assurance, which would drive any good, sane woman running for the hills (I do not know why they would run to the hills, it seems counterproductive to run towards a hill to get away from something, knowing that hills will increase the physical strain and slow the progression of necessary escape. Unless they lived on a high plateau and were running for the lower hills, in which case they could find some downward momentum. But realistically it would be easier to just run to their car and drive away). I am happy, beyond happy if you’ll have it, for sure. As I said I have a beautiful, caring, thoughtful, and not so brutal of a wife who is happy with me. That makes me fucking ecstatic. How did this happen? As with all relationships, it started with a lie.

wouldn't it be nice.

Over a drink a few months back I met a girl. She was older than I was, about ten years older. that made her beautiful, and the fact that she was beautiful made her even more appealing. We had our hellos and that was mostly it. See I was there with some friends of mine, and she had flew into town for a day or two on business. She hadn't even made it to her hotel yet because her luggage was on the floor next to her in the pub. She told me I was beautiful and asked if she could kiss me. I told her no. She asked for my phone. When I gave it to her she called herself so that she now had my number. That was that. That was months ago, until just this past week.

She sent me a message saying she would like to see me. I told her it wasn't possible because she lived in one area and I lived in another, and I couldn't justify buying a plane ticket to see someone I didn't know, and didn't know if I even wanted to know. So she bought the tickets, and rented the hotel, and asked me if I would like to meet up with her for dinner. I told her yes.

It was a long day for me at work, not the longest day I'd had in the past few weeks, but a solid eleven hours for two days straight. I made my way to the city. I was meant to meet her around seven, but at seven I decided to pop into a pub and have a beer. That particular pub had a particular beer I enjoyed very much. So I was late to meet her. She seemed nervous as all to see me. She really didn't know how to say hello, and went for a handshake. So, I took her arm by the elbow and pulled her in a little, then leaned in a little, kissed her cheek, and told her it was nice to see her.

We had a drink and tried to sort plans for the evening. I had such a long day at work that I told her it would be good for me to have a shower. She recommended the hotel for a shower and I agreed. It was a lovely room, small, but nice and comforting. The most extraordinary part of the room was the outdoor garden. We had an entire alley way garden filled with creeping vines and flowers and plants from floor to the tops of the buildings. We had an outdoor table and lounge chairs. It would have been a great place for a late wake up, slow and steady morning meal.

The door to the shower was a sliding door. It didn't shut all the way. The bathroom itself was made for very little privacy. There was a large open shower with no door within feet of the toilet, which would get wet from the water splashing off ones body. I didn't shut the door all the way and undressed. I could see that she snuck looks of me when I was undressing and when I was in the shower because the room was that open, and I allowed it.

She had changed outfits when I was showering and after I was clothed we were ready to leave for dinner. We also had to meet up with a friend of hers. We were late.

She wasn't a large girl by any matter. Actually, she was only about five feet one or two inches and quite thin. She had blonde wavy hair just past her shoulders. She had a surfer girl look to her, which made sense when I heard of her childhood and growing up years around the beaches and in the water. Her skin had a great colour and she smelled of the sweetest things.

She told me that she couldn't actually believe that I had met up with her. She told me she thought for sure that I wouldn't come. But there I was, with her. She was so nervous that we were actually together. It was hard for her to finish her thoughts and she just kept stopping her talking and laughing that something she wanted was actually happening. She said that a lot, that her life never seemed to work out, and here something was, something she wanted and took a risk on, and it had been working out. She was standing a foot or two away from me and I was sitting on the bed putting on my boots. We were nearly the same height, I was just a little lower. She told me she was so nervous one more time, so I pulled her into me and kissed her. I told her not to be nervous.

We stayed kissing for a while, nicely and slowly, as we should have. I could tell by her breathing it was feeling stronger for her, and i felt the same. I stood up from the bed and in doing so picked her straight up from the floor. I had all her weight, all her body in my arms and it felt like nearly nothing. She through her legs around me and i moved to the other side of the bed and sat back down with her around me. We kissed and moved together for a while, laughing and stopping to stare at each other from moment to moment. After a smile we would kiss again.

We both needed more. I started to undo the buttons on her blouse. One by one. Kiss by kiss, as slow as possible. When i got down to the last two buttons she stopped me and told me she didn't want me to look at her stomach. I told her she was insane because I didn't care what she looked like at all. We kissed again and she stopped me again when I went for the button. She seemed really nervous and asked if we could turn the light off because she didn't want me to see her stomach. I told her know and I would only look at her face.

To this, the buttons were apart, her shirt was off and i had given it a bit of a toss across the room. Again we kissed. She wasn't nearly as gentle as I was with her when she removed my shirts. She took them both off in one big pull and through them even further away. She then crossed her arms in front of her stomach and leaned in to kiss me more. A few minutes later she remembered we were meant to meet her friend and were already thirty minutes late. We decided to hold off on our physical feelings and have our night out before we had our night in. She tried to stand up but before she could I pulled her in closer and kissed her again. I stood up, her still around me, all her weight in my arms. I walked across the room kissing her, bent down and picked up our shirts kissing her, sat back down on the bed kissing her, and put her shirt back on for her, button by button, kiss by kiss, until she was safe again in the light.

The night was a fun, fast, lovely blurr. We took our taxi. We met her friend. We had our dinner. We had our drinks. We had our talking. We took our taxi. We had our room at the hotel. We had each other for about five more hours until she had to be at the airport, flying home to be in time for work.

She was nervous about the scars she had on her stomach. Scars from the three operations she needed growing up. She was ashamed of them, but she was beautiful and absolutely lovely with or without them.

The sleep we got was short. Just enough for her to miss her chances of making the plane. I woke up around six thirty because I needed to be off for work. We talked for about ten minutes as I clothed, hydrated, and got her her toothbrush and toothpaste that she wanted so she felt safe to kiss me before I left. She told me she could die that day and be happy. She was so happy something in her life had worked out for her. Something she took a chance on. And it was great. I told her none of it would have been so wonderful without her. On that note, I tried to leave three more times before I actually shut the door.

It was the first time I was late to work in months. I showed up one minute late, but that last minute was one I will always remember.

She sent me a message the next night saying she hadn't re-booked a flight and would be staying an extra night if I wanted to meet up with her again. I ignored the message. She spent that second night the exact same way I spent that second night. Alone and thankful for it. No reason to ruin something so lovely.

Note to self. Open your eyes and slow down.

By the saving grace of Peter Wilcox I am here today. He lent a hand to a fallen man, a man who had gone astray. His simple words they were a gift that lifted a sunken head, and in that lift, a sudden shift that saved life from the dead. He saw me pained, he heard my sufferings, he knew my swollen grief. In one breathless heave, he then took his leave, as I turned over a new leaf. "It's just a part, and not the whole, life will take it's course. Matter of fact, just don't look back, the future should be your source." And with that I soundly stepped away from what held me down. For Peter Wilcox was the only man I knew who's words were sound. I left the pain, the angst, and dread, and headed on my way. Into the light, or was it night, I'm just not sure to say. But off I went with both eyes wide and quickening my pace. I ran straight and fast far from my past and life became a race. And at the end I slowed my feet and came to a tired rest. I looked around and then I found that I had failed life's test. I ran too fast and ran too straight, eyes focused on what was ahead. I missed what spice can come in life, the living, before the dead. I just took off and never stopped and went on my merry way. I left too quick and didn't hear the end of what Peter Wilcox had to say. "Life can bring you down my friend, the past is a toll you pay. So look ahead, but also all around, and take life day by day."

Thank you Australia.

Well this is a touch early. I still have two weeks left before departure but there are things in my head now that I do not want to forget in those two weeks, which my head is capable of doing. So.... thank you Australia for.....

wedges.
hungry jacks.
My black pride t-shirt (black is the colour, it says pride on it).
cheap white sneakers.
cash work.
Cricket.
AFL, ehh.
friends.
old friends.
new friends.
visiting friends.
sunburns.
oyster beds.
Beach day.
Australian Open.
Three day dates.
large bats and friendly possums.
kangaroos.
eating kangaroos.
chasing a wallaby.
the great ocean road.
5 wonderful mid december late nights.
Sydney.
Melbourne and thornbury.
Cat, of course, of course.
Adam.
Em.
Sam and Natalie. And their wedding, and everyone here for it.
TREVOR my lover.
Lachlan Dansie
Kelsey and James.
D.K.
Kendy Gable.
Dan Flemming for sure.
Sasha for sure.
Dave Lamb.
Finding out I can open up to friends.
Falling in love.
Time for music and writing.
Soccer.
Primary Cafe.
32 Bradley.
Making me ride a bike everyday.
teaching me i don't hate walking.
Seeing how talented people i know are.
giant hail stones.
Brunswick street.
high street.
Ancient Memories.
Not being in a fight since I've got here.
The Avett Brothers Live.
The cave.
Trams and public transportation.
Home brewed beer.
Gomez.
I think I cried for the first time in years.
plastic money.
nearly six good months.
letting me get away.
helping me find great people.
helping me find a great person.
AND EVERYTHING I WILL PROBABLY NOT REMEMBER IN THE NEXT TWO WEEKS!!!!!

Thank you Australia and an early goodbye, in case i forget.

someone please get married

i've felt your needle prick a thousand times before
you were my medication for a while.
you made me well when i was unwell.
you made me high when i wasn't high.
those lonely little words you let creep from your lips
i know it's a long way back to the ground.
the last little bit of my dollar i called a dime.
i saved it week by week for the right time,
but it's never the right time.
i'm back in the late night with no one to hear my whisper.
i'm back in the late night with no one to pull me close.
i think i'll hold on to that until you feel it again,
or until i feel no more.
you're such a supremely wonderful girl
and i'm glad i know it.
i'd like it to be as simple as i hear it can be.
i just want you to know it.
i might even give you the first sip or bite and not care.
someone please get married, maybe i'll see her again.

I say, it's fair to say i love you.

the girl within the story Galbray

i've seen you in a moonlit pasture.
i've watched you be beneath the rain.
we have been in light together,
and in darkness had our play, our playful play.
as the blue moon faded i kissed your face
and i saw you changing colours.
i looked into your eyes and it's when, i saw
my reflection of the beauty i was looking on.
as a last ditched effort i have had to say goodbye
because i know the goodbye was flying in, on its way.
and i wasn't built to live this way forever.
and i wasn't built to feel this way forever.
it's a simple place i am and i'm a simple kind of man,
it's difficult to ask much more of me,
but here i am. here i am. here i am.

i've fallen in love before, but at least then
i've been able to fall back out again
and oh, i've seen enough things
to know that life lives in you girl.
and oh. i've come to find
that i am no friend of mine.
and oh, i've come to see
in everyone, in every being
there is but one that holds me so
the only one that's let me go.
but here i am. here i am. here i am.
but oh. oh no. oh no.

Surely not love at first sight.

It would have been a bad day for most people, or creatures alike, but even more so for the homeless, thirsty snail that was doing nothing more than trying to cross a road, in order to make it to a slightly dewy grass, just before the protection of some woods, so that it could re-equip itself with a sturdy home. It's previous home, so abusively snatched from it by a one-eyed crow, and mostly blind in its one eye, that mistook it for road kill not four feet back, had cracked completely, and after having survived such an ordeal the snail merely wanted a little bit of peace. And from wanting that little bit of peace, and a small replenishing of liquids, was soon left squished and dead because of the navigational mishaps of a homely curtain maker, and the uncharacteristic walking patterns of a crude and vile man.

Knowing that all of this was upon the poor snail, well, knowing it now because it is aftermath, if I had known it then I would have done my best to save the snail, but not changed the circumstances of the incident because the circumstances themselves have provided mostly a pleasant aftermath for yours truly, it would have been better for the snail to just have been a bit thirsty.

It was an odd job for Chandori, to be that of a curtain maker. Such prize-full skills she had beyond thinking and forming curtains. She was swift with a needle and machine. She had ears quite large enough to be a over-hearer, eyes keen enough to be a sightseer, a nose profound and professional to be a sniffing dog, and it was curtains she chose to spend her days with. She made beautiful towels and blankets, throw-overs and duvets. She could spin a silken scarf so sensationally, yet still, curtains were her mark.

Chandori wasn't a pretty girl, with such ears and nose how could she be, her eyes though perfect in their machinery were kind of dull and brown. Her skin forever porous and brows never plucked. Her chin just a touch on the sunken side and her hair always in knots. Not a bride wanted by most men indeed, but a happy girl, sweet, and kind. Softly spoken, but always thoughtful, and playful with her words. She would make a fine telephone lover, though she rarely talks to strangers, and knows very little of eroticism, for she makes curtains, not late night house calls.

She likes to bind the fabrics and find the just colours for the intended room. She asks people the colour of the paint in their houses, she asked the kind of decoration and number of sun providing windows. She asks about the carpet, tile, or wooden floors. About the most often company and accompanied artificial lighting. She crafts the curtains for the persons lifestyle and well being, not just for their pretty show, design, and reason. She asks of furniture and picture boards, they can often throw off the mood for a proper curtain fitting. She does this all for the people of purchase, through good intentions of herself.

Chandori was a quiet girl, and still is for the better part of her time. Not many friends as a younger lady, but no enemies as well. Her complexion changed, as did her looks, between the rough ages of developing womanhood, she lost a little of her looks, the little most would have liked her to hold on to. But she wasn't a girl looking for a boy looking for looks, or a girl looking for a girl looking for looks for that matter. She wasn't a girl looking for anyone for any reason come to think of it. She had her business, that of which her mother gave to her, she had her curtains, and she had her peace. She had a small house, with fine curtains, she had a front garden and a box for mail out front. She had a small floral design on her mailbox, she wasn't a fan for solid colours, unless they suited the purpose of a place. She had a cat, or she did a few days back, before that cat ran away. It often ran away though, for weeks and months at a time, but would either willingly or unwillingly return. The cat, its name was Rascal, but for now the cat is gone.

She wore little slipper shoes, never trainers, sneakers, boots, pumps, or heels. Just little slipper shoes that showed the last little cleavages between the last few toes on the outer part of her feet. They made her feel grounded and pleasant. She liked long skirts, but mostly wore pants. She liked pretty shirts and blouses, but mostly wore baggy jumpers and long sleeved tops. She had knotty hair, as you know, and would often wear it up, tangled as it is. She had many belts, but never wore them because she had the hips of a mother, but wanted no children of her own as of then. She didn't drink, she didn't smoke, she didn't lose control. She liked her bike, she liked to walk, she spent most of life alone. But she was happy with that, not looking for companions, company, or fruitful banter. Not needing chatty Kathy's for her afternoon tea. Just pleasantly content, alone, where she was familiar.

And as it goes for such a person, comfortable in their life, on came a tidal wave in the form of an older man, with a harsh tongue, unpleasant and un-pretty. Now he was once a kinder person, when he was younger and well off. Well off in friends, and wealth, and love, and things to do. When he had motivation, and ambition, and questioned the roots of his being. When he wanted to know what he wanted to know, go where he wanted to go, bed who he wanted to bed, and talk with those he wished to talk with. But that was years ago. Since then he has become a mutant of a person, turned callous, cold, and unquestionably discontent.

This is because he found out what he wanted to know, he went to and became disappointed with where he wanted to go, he had lay down playful time with those he wanted to bed, some of which left him more than just wrinkled bedding and that smell that sticks with you a bit after the act of which is being eluded to but not said outright for the sake of a younger reader, and he found little more than ideas he didn't agree with by those he thought would make good conversational companions. He felt the world he wanted betrayed him, and it was not his fault, but a worlds fault. A world he lived in, a world he wanted more from.

And this man, once dressed in fine clothes, smelling of fine things, talking as a gentleman should talk, doing as an honest man should do, now was a lie, a cheat, and a vagabond dusty to his core, black in his apparel, and always a face of scorn to be seen. And here he was, being distasteful and utterly unaccompanied, to his own liking, walking where he wanted to when, when not so pretty Chandori, with a basket full of new gold flake infused canvass material from Eritrea she had spent many a saved earnings on for a small curtain she wished to make for one of her two guest rooms that never saw guests, hit him on her bike as she tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid what looked like a naked snail.

As it happened and she was thinking it was his fault, he was thinking it was her fault, but mostly the fault of the world against him, the snail she had hit and run over just before who was just having a bad day thought it was his parents fault for leaving him with the slow gene, a squirrel trying to cross a telephone and electrical wire overhead carrying far too many acorns in his mouth slipped because it was swooped by a passing hawk, fell from the wire onto the ungrateful and cold man, and if had had little squirrel pants on, would have shat himself doing it, but instead had a quick shit on the hat of the angry male. It was a rare, unforgettable, and unpleasant occurrence for both Chandori and the beastly second party.

Now this caused quite the commotion and confrontation for the aforementioned two. One of which, Chandori, was neither ready for or accustomed to such verbal badger and confrontation, and the second, this vile tidal wave of a man, had through many arguments, upset words, non flattering conversations, and general ill will, had become quite masterful at. And after berating, spitting hatred towards, stepping and rubbing into the dirty floor of the road the gold flake infused canvass material that was saved for for many months, and calling the weaker of the two parties a "lumpy git of a girl with poor navigational skills and a silly chin and sideburns," Chandori replied with a sharp slap to his unshaven face, a quick kick to his left shin and a "No thank you for that tone of voice, Sir."

And saying that, in that way, with nothing left out up until now, that is how I met my wife.

waking up.

On a day I've spent my time wishing I was somewhere else,
in the mind of someone else I've had a day of bliss,
for the day was spent in the eyes of happy talkers,
and the pains that hold me back always stem from this.

Once the man that was the figure figured out his role,
and for that price he had to pay so we can have our spoils,
finer things can not be done and better words not spoken,
than by the man who gave his hand to end his peoples turmoil.

From our failings he is the wound that bares our heathen heart,
we poach our time to understand that what we miss is fine,
his life begins again knowing that he's changed a mind,
and lighter is this side of things and the soul of all divine.

The days of Loucas Pickler's death II

He had snuck out of his room at half past 2 a.m. He said he couldn't sleep and needed to walk off some emotion. He told me he climbed out his window and down the small roof on the lower part of our house. It would have been foolish to tell him that was a dangerous thing to do, knowing how he was found. He walked for about a mile or two and stopped. He said he watched the moon for a while, and he thought about Phiona, that was his girlfriend the day before. He told me thinking about her made him feel the most pain he had ever felt, even more than when he broke both of his legs three years earlier in a bike accident. He told me it was more than just the physical pain, and that is what really hurt.

So he kept walking, trying to walk off the pain of memory, even a painful memory of just a day. When the sun began to rise he took to some of the bike paths that connect our local area of towns through the woods, old railway tracks and footpaths. He stopped at one of his favorite ponds and skipped rocks for a few minutes. He told me watching them skip made him lose some of the pain, just focusing on the little hopping ripples, but when he thought of them sinking, and losing their momentum it was too much for him. He told me he vomited three times after skipping rocks. And then he just continued walking along the old railway path towards Gardner, the next closest town south to ours. He never got hungry, and he never got tired. the mindless drone of walking, he said, allowed him to think when he needed, and not think when he couldn't bare it.

In Gardner he climbed a tree, just ten feet up, and he thought about jumping. I'm glad he hadn't done that. He climbed it higher, nearly thirty feet up and thought about jumping again. I am very glad he hadn't done that. He said he climbed to nearly fifty feet and couldn't think at all because he was too afraid of the height, but he liked the rush in his chest from the fear, because it was a fear he could understand. He held on high up in the tree for a minute or so and then slowly climbed back to the woods floor. He told me he thanked the tree, I found that a bit off putting and uncomfortable to hear. It made him sound a little crazy, but i couldn't show him that's how I felt when I was listening. I just told him to go on.

From the floor of the woods he left the old railway tracks and headed west through the woods. he knew it was west because the watch I had bought him for his seventeenth birthday, the watch he always wore, had a compass on it. At a clearing of a small field he told me he saw a rabbit just prodding along amongst some old dandelion weeds. Then he went off on a tangent about how he use to love to blow the 'feathers' he called them, off of the dandelion weeds when they lost their yellow. When he was younger I told him that is how they spread their seed, and grow new weeds. I always told him not to blow the 'feathers' off of them, but he liked to do it. He told me watching the rabbit, when it prodded along, it would knock some of the 'feathers' off of the dandelion weeds, and he could see them float around in the soft breeze. He then became angry at the rabbit, he said, and tried to kill it with a stick he had found, but it was much to swift for him to even start pursuing. Some of his comments were worrying me. Some of my son's story didn't sound like my son.

Through the field he walked, kicking the dandelion weeds as he did, the late dew wetting the fronts of his pants, and soaking his shoes and socks. At the far end of the field, where the woods began again he said there was an old car, rusted and picked apart, grown into the side of a large tree. He spent some time in it, sitting on a bucket some person had left in it, with his feet leaning up on the tree. he told me their was a steady stream of black ants crawling from a large crack in the tree, down onto the floor of the car, and back round to another crack in the tree. They weren't carrying anything, which surprised him, they were just following each other. He told me he liked watching them just follow each other, doing nothing but keeping their heads in line, staying the course. At that he stopped, and he seemed to be thinking for a moment. I told him to go on.

He didn't want to go on though, not then. He said he was tired and needed a nap. He said the three days were catching up to him physically and he needed rest. I closed the blinds in the hospital room so it was dark enough for him to close his eyes softly and lightly, not fight the dark by closing them harder. I listened as his breathing slowed, and before he nodded off, he told me he wasn't sorry, he was just tired. He said he wasn't sorry about Loucas Pickler, just tired.

The days of Loucas Pickler's death

Two days before my son graduated from high school his girlfriend of two years and he split up. He was a bit distraught over it, and wanted to skip his graduation ceremony. His mother told him it was out of the question. He had spent four years for this moment and shouldn't and couldn't miss it. Kids don't see things like that. Waiting four years for a moment. Especially a moment they have to have if they want any future. It isn't one day for four years. It was four years to get the hell out. Losing his girl just broke his last social tie. The tie that was too much for him to lose.

I'm not telling you this because what my son did was wrong, or right, or good, or sad, or anything besides an act of emotion and reaction. I'm not telling you this because I am proud or disappointed in him. I'm not telling you this because he can't tell you. I'm telling you because this is what happened.

He and his girlfriend broke up. Breaking up, I remember how it use to mean something, use to mean so much to kids when I was that age. Now, before this all happened, it just seemed something to laugh at. Too think how much one can have at stake in somebody else at such a young age. But that's just it. It's all at stake, because at that age, that is the whole of life, as it is just a part now. Then, it is all of the responsibility, now it is part of it. It;s funny how big seems small, when the small makes it so big.

The first night he just sat up in his room and listened to his music a bit louder than normal. He didn't come to dinner, and when I brought him up a plate of food I could see that he had either been crying, or been fighting off crying. He didn't want to talk to me, not yet, and I could respect that. You should try to figure things out yourself before you search for help from others. His music and lights went off sooner than they usually do. The next morning he didn't come down to breakfast before school, which was fine because the day before was his last day of school. I went to check on him about 10.30, you know how kids like that can sleep in. He didn't come down to breakfast because he wasn't in his room. He had left during the night.

I didn't know what had happened to him that day, or the day of his graduation. I didn't know until he told me. Nobody knew what had happened to him, or Loucas Pickler, another boy in his year meant to graduate. They weren't found until the day after their meant-to-be graduation. My son told me what had happened over the three days, before he was found, tied to a tree, next to the body of Loucas Pickler.

Mr. Galbray on his bike

I stopped for a moment to have some tea, and I could see both Mr. and Mrs. Galbray were sat forward in their chairs. Mr. Galbray was the first to sit back, as if to show I didn't have his full attention, but I did. Mrs. Galbray didn't hesitate for a moment, asking names and places, what happened next, did I see her again, am I in love, all questions that would be answered I told them, as the time was right to tell.

Mr. Galbray asked me to hold my story, as he had to retreat to the wash room for a moment. Mrs. Galbray just smiled at me with her wrinkly old smile, the way lovely old ladies can, and told me she knew the exact moment Heathe, Mr. Galbray, stole her heart and tamed her love. She told me he was riding a bike in show for her. They were on a little picnic, and he was riding his bike back and forth for her, trying to look really swell and neat. That is, until he spilled his bike over and put a hole right in the left leg of his trousers. She told me she just laughed and laughed and then kissed his knee. That's when he took her and kissed her well. That's when he stole her heart. That was 38 years ago now.

Mr. Galbray returned from the washroom and sat back down to his chair, picked up his tea, and gave a lean forward with finger in air. He said that he knew the exact moment that Deleanor, Mrs. Galbray, fell in love with him. Before he could say the word bike Mrs. Galbray slapped his knee and told him she had already told me the story when he was in the washroom. To this, Mr. Galbray put his tea down to table, sat back in his chair, crossed his arms in a subtle triumph, and gave me a satisfied nod. I said well done sir to him, and told him 37 years was quite a few years to have stolen someones love. He told me it was 38. You have to admire the love of an older couple, just goofy grins and old habits is all it takes to capture one another again.

As I returned to the story of the girl and I it became quite serious again amongst the Couple Galbray's eyes and eager attention. Go on they said in unison. And again I went.

She trumped me. After twenty four beautiful minutes I was finally left to speak. I told her I'd rather look up than down. She told me she liked that. I told her I think I liked her. She kissed me with everything she had, tasted the life of me in one strong effort. Then, she told me she would think about it, turned, and left me alone. I felt like a pumpkin come Halloween, gutted, but for good reason, and wearing a stupid happy face.

Mrs. Galbray stopped me, and said that was a bit off, and not such a proper thing for her to do. Mr. Galbray, arms still crossed, started the simplest little laugh, and as it grew his face grew more and more red. Mrs. Galbray slapped his knee again and told him to stop. He didn't stop. He laughed more and more and more. She slapped his knee again, this time laughing as well, and turned red with laughter and life herself. We three laughed good and long until the tea was cold.

The girl with the curls

I've said my sorries and I've said my peace.
You wanted your closure it's what you can have from me.
I don't feel better no I think I feel the same.
There are no winners in this lovely game.
You fell to the ground and I've shaken my hands at the sky.
When do one and one become a painful goodbye?
I changed your name for years.
I changed your name for years.
And all it got me was twice the goodbye.
You know you are great, and I knew you were great.
It seems to be that great can't be my escape.
My favorite parts were when we were making our cards,
and sending our wishes and loves from house to house.
You loved to run and i loved to lay in our bed.
I'd rather be starving then have a life overfed.
I changed your name for years.
I changed your name for years.
And all it got me was twice the goodbye.

Cartoons and mashed potatoes

Living as a plant. A plant not planted. It was once planted, but now uprooted, and left on its side, roots limp and losing stretch and strength, thirsty but unable to save itself. That's how she was. That is what she felt. That is who she was. Leaves forgiven for their falling, dried and withered as old flesh withers and dries, cracks and ages as time keeps its promise.

Still she laid there, still she was unwilling to lose the energy that once was her life. Still she held on, to what no person knew. She didn't know why she held on, limbs frozen in place, knuckled and gripped, unbroken with hope, but hope for a change, something different, something else, something new.

It would have been safer to release, the letting go some do in the end, the falling from lower places to higher ones. Falling from what we have known, to something we hope will be better for us. It's always brighter there. there is always something to see and silently smile at. There is always something there to make the moments in between, better.

That's where she wanted to be, what she hoped for. That's what I found her looking for, she found me as well. Unexpected, yes. Unwanted, no. Unavoidable, maybe. Unbelievable, absolutely.

I had the will to help. She had the will to change who she was, because who she was was unpleasant and alone. She was slumped on her side, on a footpath, when I found her, but she was trying to stand herself up. I stood between her and the light post, she thought I was harm coming her way, never. I didn't help her until she wanted me to. I asked her if I could take her hand. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. She had spit in the corners of her mouth and down her chin. Her left eye was bruised and closed, and her fingers and finger nails were filthy. Bare feet trying to tuck themselves in to the bottoms of her pants. She didn't cry, not out loud, but she had been crying for months, you could see the marks the tears left on every inch of her.

She raised her hand to me, and I took it, and grabbed under her elbow to straighten her up for standing. She couldn't stand, but she could hold on. She had somewhere to live, but she didn't know where it was, or where she was. I had been taking care of Phillip Delgrade's house. He was a friend I had made in my travels, and asked if I could stay in his house for him for a few weeks, as he was away on business lectures. I took her to my surrogate home.

She couldn't hold fluids down. Her words came from everywhere and confused themselves to all but herself. She refused to welcome herself to my help, but she was weak, and she needed it. I drew her a bath, and let her soak in it, fully clothed and still asleep. I cleaned her hands and feet, and cleaned her face. Her lips loved the steam and bleed well. I poured water over her hair and down her face. She coughed, but she needed the cleanse. It was the first of three baths she needed, they seemed to calm her body.

When sleep took over her unconscious resistance, I gave her clean, dry clothes, and cocooned her in blankets and pillows. I slept on the floor next to the bed because her cough seemed to be a little worse. Her energy never found itself that first night and day, but after the first six hours, she would let water down, and later, warm broth. She had no need to know who I was. She had no need to know who was helping her, she just began to accept it. Everything about her breathing told me she had been waiting for someone to help her for a long time. Her eyes stayed closed for the first eighteen hours.

I could see she was running from something as she dreamed. I could also see she didn't like her feet restrained by comforters, I would cover them, and they would free themselves within minutes. They twitched and flicked about from her dreams, but she was a quiet sleeper. It was nearly nine hours of cold shivers fighting heat and sweating attacks before she slept well again. I thought it must have been a reaction to coming off drugs, but it was because her body was fighting her addiction with being tired and unwanted. It was the comfort that shocked her in and out of fits. It was the caring.

When the fits started I would read her passages from some of my favorite books and poems, and this seemed to calm her mind. When she looked like she was dreaming I would play her low music and sing soft songs until her mind eased for her. Her body liked these little things. It was nearly two days from when I found her slumped on the footpath until she opened her eye and found where she was. She wasn't shocked. She wasn't confused. She wasn't angry. She didn't seem sad. She simply asked for water and wanted to know why she was wearing socks. I told her I put socks on her feet because they looked cold sticking out from the blankets. She told me I was a bit weird for doing that. I told her she was a bit weird because she ground her teeth quite a lot when she slept. She flicked her socks off, one at a time, using the other foot to do the work. She looked at me, ground her teeth, smiled and laughed the simplest bit, and asked me if I could make her some mashed potatoes and hand her the television remote.

I made her mashed potatoes. I handed her the remote to the television and we watched children's cartoons for six hours. I mostly watched her reactions and tried to learn how she could be so comfortable with where she was. She turned the television off. She told me the clothes she had on were too big and made her look silly. She tried to stand but couldn't. She felt dizzy and her legs felt tight and soft. I helped her to the bathroom and back to bed.

She asked me if I could play her some music and so I did for a few minutes. She asked if I could close the blinds over the windows and make it really dark, so I blacked the windows out with dark blankets. She asked me if I could put on a low lamp light and read to her for a while. I pulled a chair closer to the bed, and read her a book called KIM by Rudyard Kipling for just about half an hour. She curled on her side and turned towards me while I was finishing reading. Her left eye looked painful as it was bruised and closed. She looked happy in the low lamp light. She asked me, in a low whisper, eyes closed, if I could find her some warm socks and put them on her feet, and tuck her in nice and tight. I managed to do all three of her requests, made her sip some more water and watched her fall asleep. Three minutes later her feet were out from the covers and working the socks off.

It was six thirty four at night. It was the 20th of November. It was a little colder than a normal Autumn evening should be. I slept in a chair, facing a healing, tired girl, who was grinding her teeth and twitching her feet. I felt good.