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.
31 March 2010
30 March 2010
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.
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.
29 March 2010
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.
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.
28 March 2010
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.
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.
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.
23 March 2010
Couple Galbray
I remember when I met Mr. and Mrs. Galbray. It was a Tuesday, and they were trying to move some furniture and a few boxes through the entry way of their building. They looked to be struggling a bit with it. They were both in their late sixties, wearing lovely, pressed clothes, he with a hat, she with a big scarf.
I had been in a most shabby condition. I had been travelling for months out of a bag. Mostly I walked where I was, after I travelled there. And this is how we found ourselves on that Tuesday, they moving items, finely pressed and clean people, me, unshaven, with a back pack, wild hair, and carrying an old guitar case. I offered my help and Mr. Galbray declined, though he was struggling. Mrs. Galbray thanked for my offer, she herself could not help, but was in agreement that I was not welcome into their home.
I told them I was quite strong and could carry their belongings for them. Again they denied my help and told me straight that they would be uncomfortable with me in their home. I swore to them on the soul of my father I meant them no harm, and my brief company and assistance would mean them absolutely no ill will. To this they looked at me, at each other, and asked me to please help.
After I made the three trips it took from sidewalk to their very lovely, well kept, and well spent home, they asked me for a rest and offered me some tea. I told them it was no bother. I thanked them for letting me help them, and said my pleasant goodbyes. Mrs. Galbray would have none of it and insisted I had some tea, so the three of us retired to one of the many sitting rooms in their home. I had a first sip of tea, with a touch of honey and a touch more of milk. Mr. Galbray asked me, judging from my accent, what on earth I was doing there, in their country, on their street. I told them I was looking for a girl. Now I had a story to tell them, and they were ready for it, and made sure I told them every detail.
So I told them.
She was a singer and worked in a cafe. I worked landscaping and general building. We were a mismatch from the start. She was pretty and thoughtful. I was brash and crude. She was swift and lovely. I was hard and slouched. She had a smile. I wore a blank face, devoid of too much emotion, but willing to hope.
I had met a friend for a quick meal. It was a Saturday. We usually met on Saturday's for lunch. This time she suggested we meet at a new place. I knew from the start it was a set up though. She had brought me there to introduce me to a girl, a not so close friend of hers down and out on love, and looking for a "nice guy". I told her I was far from that description, but friends say they know you better than yourself, and sometimes you hope you can believe them.
I saw her bringing food and coffees out to other patrons. She was a sight. More than a sight, she was a pleasant sight. She was shocking to me, like the sky is on the days you commit atrocities, it knows what is ahead, and is frightful in its colours. My friend told me about the girl before I saw her, but she didn't look anything like her description. I stopped drinking my coffee, walked straight up to her and asked if I could ask her if I could buy her a coffee, which was quite like something I would say, thoughtless and plain simple. She laughed though, and she told me I could take her on a walk in an hour, when she ended her shift at work. I was stunned again, she must have heard some great things about me, things I didn't even know. I wanted to thank my friend, Elory, for what she must have said.
I sat back down, nearly smiled, and turned to Elory and thanked her for whatever she said. She told me I had talked to a different girl, not her friend. She said it was the wrong girl. She had never been more wrong a day in her life. That girl was the right girl.
I knew it on our walk. We talked for only the first minute, deciding where we would walk, it would be a small one mile loop around the man made pond just near Cantersand Park. We talked for a minute. We spent the other twenty four minutes in a silence. An uncorrupted silence, blissful and full of nothing. She was eager for me to start. I was wondering what possibly this girl could say to me. Some would think it was the type of silence couples have years after they have been in love, and are on edge for the evening, one walking at just a faster pace a step or two in front of the other. that wasn't it though, we were by our sides, we were happy to be there. the silence was a gift, I could notice how she walked, what she did with her hands, how she liked to kick rocks and little sticks in her path. She noticed how I kind of dragged my feet and never put my hands in my pockets, and how I looked at the sky every few moments. I noticed how she would change her breathing when she nearly thought o f something to say. She noticed I was terribly speechless and worried because she was so beautiful.
It was a silence I want again. It was a silence we shared all of the time when we were together. It was better than whispers and our pushing and pulling of love. It was better than the eyes and the shivers before touch. It was a silence unbroken. A silence held by both, apart. We walked footstep for footstep around that pond and straight back to our original tracks. twenty four minutes of what would be the first of many best moments in my life. Then she asked me what I was looking at in the sky. All I could muster was that I liked to look up rather than down. She said she liked that.
I had been in a most shabby condition. I had been travelling for months out of a bag. Mostly I walked where I was, after I travelled there. And this is how we found ourselves on that Tuesday, they moving items, finely pressed and clean people, me, unshaven, with a back pack, wild hair, and carrying an old guitar case. I offered my help and Mr. Galbray declined, though he was struggling. Mrs. Galbray thanked for my offer, she herself could not help, but was in agreement that I was not welcome into their home.
I told them I was quite strong and could carry their belongings for them. Again they denied my help and told me straight that they would be uncomfortable with me in their home. I swore to them on the soul of my father I meant them no harm, and my brief company and assistance would mean them absolutely no ill will. To this they looked at me, at each other, and asked me to please help.
After I made the three trips it took from sidewalk to their very lovely, well kept, and well spent home, they asked me for a rest and offered me some tea. I told them it was no bother. I thanked them for letting me help them, and said my pleasant goodbyes. Mrs. Galbray would have none of it and insisted I had some tea, so the three of us retired to one of the many sitting rooms in their home. I had a first sip of tea, with a touch of honey and a touch more of milk. Mr. Galbray asked me, judging from my accent, what on earth I was doing there, in their country, on their street. I told them I was looking for a girl. Now I had a story to tell them, and they were ready for it, and made sure I told them every detail.
So I told them.
She was a singer and worked in a cafe. I worked landscaping and general building. We were a mismatch from the start. She was pretty and thoughtful. I was brash and crude. She was swift and lovely. I was hard and slouched. She had a smile. I wore a blank face, devoid of too much emotion, but willing to hope.
I had met a friend for a quick meal. It was a Saturday. We usually met on Saturday's for lunch. This time she suggested we meet at a new place. I knew from the start it was a set up though. She had brought me there to introduce me to a girl, a not so close friend of hers down and out on love, and looking for a "nice guy". I told her I was far from that description, but friends say they know you better than yourself, and sometimes you hope you can believe them.
I saw her bringing food and coffees out to other patrons. She was a sight. More than a sight, she was a pleasant sight. She was shocking to me, like the sky is on the days you commit atrocities, it knows what is ahead, and is frightful in its colours. My friend told me about the girl before I saw her, but she didn't look anything like her description. I stopped drinking my coffee, walked straight up to her and asked if I could ask her if I could buy her a coffee, which was quite like something I would say, thoughtless and plain simple. She laughed though, and she told me I could take her on a walk in an hour, when she ended her shift at work. I was stunned again, she must have heard some great things about me, things I didn't even know. I wanted to thank my friend, Elory, for what she must have said.
I sat back down, nearly smiled, and turned to Elory and thanked her for whatever she said. She told me I had talked to a different girl, not her friend. She said it was the wrong girl. She had never been more wrong a day in her life. That girl was the right girl.
I knew it on our walk. We talked for only the first minute, deciding where we would walk, it would be a small one mile loop around the man made pond just near Cantersand Park. We talked for a minute. We spent the other twenty four minutes in a silence. An uncorrupted silence, blissful and full of nothing. She was eager for me to start. I was wondering what possibly this girl could say to me. Some would think it was the type of silence couples have years after they have been in love, and are on edge for the evening, one walking at just a faster pace a step or two in front of the other. that wasn't it though, we were by our sides, we were happy to be there. the silence was a gift, I could notice how she walked, what she did with her hands, how she liked to kick rocks and little sticks in her path. She noticed how I kind of dragged my feet and never put my hands in my pockets, and how I looked at the sky every few moments. I noticed how she would change her breathing when she nearly thought o f something to say. She noticed I was terribly speechless and worried because she was so beautiful.
It was a silence I want again. It was a silence we shared all of the time when we were together. It was better than whispers and our pushing and pulling of love. It was better than the eyes and the shivers before touch. It was a silence unbroken. A silence held by both, apart. We walked footstep for footstep around that pond and straight back to our original tracks. twenty four minutes of what would be the first of many best moments in my life. Then she asked me what I was looking at in the sky. All I could muster was that I liked to look up rather than down. She said she liked that.
Everyday
As the sun came up over that eastern field today
I could not help but think of you.
The feeling shoots through me like a bullet
when I think of all the pain I put you through.
Every day I can see that I'm a part of you
and you're a part of me.
It all used to make so much more sense
and I'd have it all again if I could choose.
I've lost some things over the years
but the memory I will not lose.
As the sun goes down over that western field
I still can't help but think of you.
Wherever you are I hope your wounds have healed
and you forgive me for the pain I put you through.
Everyday it tortures me.
I guess the apple fell too far from the tree.
W.E.W.
I could not help but think of you.
The feeling shoots through me like a bullet
when I think of all the pain I put you through.
Every day I can see that I'm a part of you
and you're a part of me.
It all used to make so much more sense
and I'd have it all again if I could choose.
I've lost some things over the years
but the memory I will not lose.
As the sun goes down over that western field
I still can't help but think of you.
Wherever you are I hope your wounds have healed
and you forgive me for the pain I put you through.
Everyday it tortures me.
I guess the apple fell too far from the tree.
W.E.W.
15 March 2010
Here today, here tomorrow.
It's not happened yet I feel so close again.
For a moment I had you in my ideas and I want more.
A second first time is the promise I keep myself,
it makes more sense to be here, when indeed you are here.
And on we flounder as I play the safer part.
We count our laughter as you're with the shining stars.
For the first time I'm not the pretty one.
For the first time my loveliness has been outdone.
For the first time I'm in the supporting role.
For the first time I have lost all the control.
As I see it coming I can shake my head and spin,
and fall so quickly as the world itself gives in.
The seed is planted and it waits to grow for you.
For me it holds on as with patience bears its fruits.
And each day now I have set up myself
for the evening. For now I'll just sit on this earth.
For a moment I had you in my ideas and I want more.
A second first time is the promise I keep myself,
it makes more sense to be here, when indeed you are here.
And on we flounder as I play the safer part.
We count our laughter as you're with the shining stars.
For the first time I'm not the pretty one.
For the first time my loveliness has been outdone.
For the first time I'm in the supporting role.
For the first time I have lost all the control.
As I see it coming I can shake my head and spin,
and fall so quickly as the world itself gives in.
The seed is planted and it waits to grow for you.
For me it holds on as with patience bears its fruits.
And each day now I have set up myself
for the evening. For now I'll just sit on this earth.
14 March 2010
As you should.
So it was a Wednesday, not last Wednesday, the Wednesday before, so that would be two weeks ago this Wednesday. Work was good. I really enjoy cafe work. It is so easy, you don't need to think much when you do what I do, like clean dishes, clear tables, and just be friendly, I can do that for sure. So it was a Wednesday. Work ended and some friends, I think I can call them, not just co-workers, one would be my boss anyway, yeah friends I like that. We went out for a few pints and pots or schooners or whatever the hell you call them here. i['m use to jugs, but the pints were perfect.
Kendy Gable, DK, and myself of course, enjoyed ourselves at a pub called the Retreat. Nice pub, outdoor beer garden, and half outdoor room with lounge couches with a big open wall looking to the garden. Beautiful I say. We shared some rounds. I like that, when you don't just buy drinks for yourself, but you share rounds, I think it's the camaraderie of it, makes you feel included I guess. We had our laughs, lovely early evening. Just lovely. DK had to leave on a man dinner date, so Kendy and I held the floor for another round until my friend Sasha met up with us. Before Sasha arrived these two gorgeous little girls, probably three or four, just cute little things, one with bright, curly, blond hair and the other brown hair, both with lovely little sundresses, were playing hide and seek in and around us. I nearly died it was so fun to watch.
Sasha arrived and Sasha and Kendy seemed to get on like flies on shit (that is really well mind you, flies like to eat shit and then shit back on the shit, so even though the relationship is full of shit it is still a good one). More laughs and then Miss Kendy Gable needed to take her leave. And that left Sasha and I. It was a bit dark, and Sasha was a bit hungry, so we had a hoof around some local food stops but nothing caught her attention. Also, we were meant to meet up with Sir Dan Flemming who flew in from England, I love English people, some more than others, but I haven't met one I've disliked. I even like Hugh Grant. Shout out to Hugh Grant!! Anyway, Sasha and I headed back to where i am staying so we could contact Sir Dan Flemming.
Sasha was a fan of the walk, but not I, plus I had a bike. Only one bike helmet, no problem, we both couldn't wear it, so neither of us did, made sense to me. One bike, no problem, i put her on the seat and stood the whole ride back, and let me tell you it was a wobbly one, but one of my favorite things I've done in a while for sure. We rode for a good fifteen minutes and were seriously not one minute from the house when the police flashed their lights at us, gave us a good holler and scolding for not wearing helmets, and not having lights on my bike, mind you it was near eleven at night now, and for dinking Sasha. take it easy there people. Dinking here means to give somebody else a ride on your bike, like the seat or handle bars or something. I just like the term. Dinking. It just makes me smile.
I told them we were just ten seconds away and pointed in the direction of the house, trying my quickest move to avoid a hefty fine, which I did not want to afford, and my charm worked. Not really I think they heard my stupid accent, instantly thought I was then stupid, and told me then it would be a ten second walk. And we hoofed the rest. It took about two minutes on foot. Not too bad. We spoke with Sir Dan Flemming, and set up a Friday night for the three of us. Friday night started with drinking wine and playing soccer (or football) for a few hours, realizing it is high time we get back into better shape. Then to a hotel for showers, more wine drinking, drinking a Vodka Called Miisha, drinking some Johnny Walker Blue and meeting DK. It then turned into a Friday night of Sir Dan Flemming out with DK until 5ish and me passed out in a hotel by 11. I'm quite tired on Fridays. Friday night turned into a hungover Saturday morning where we stopped for a breakfast that was too big on the tram line home, met with cat and got a ride back, and then the three of us, Sasha, Dan Flemming, and I napping on my bed in the lounge room under the table, three to the bed for sure, for the afternoon, heavily tired. At about 5ish we stirred and I rallied people to a fish and chip run only a ten minute walk away. And we didn't return until nearly 4, and a thirty something dollar cab ride later.
The walk to fish and chips was far from wonderful. I mean if you like rain, raining on you, with a broken umbrella, and stuck at a train crossing for an additional six minutes after the train passed because of a faulty train warning system, while being rained on with nice leather boots soaking up all the rain so you have wet, soggy feet for the entire night, then yes it was wonderful. I do not like those things, so not wonderful. We bought far too much greasy, fried food. Well Sasha did, and I bought too much for two people. Sir Dan Flemming did it right, I think he only spent 4 dollars to my 21 dollars. I am ashamed. We were then off to find Sasha a filthy stripper, because it seemed like the right thing to do.
We became instantly sidetracked at a hookah and shesha bar called Ancient Memories, such a great name, where we smoked Strawberry Shesha and Watched Sister Act 2 on mute for over an hour, and developed a list of things to do that night. The infamous Cat met up with us and it was off to a local pub for jugs of beer, just the way I like my beer. We had some jugs, the power went out and taps went off so it was time to leave that joint. We said our good nights to Cat and hopped a tram to the city to meet up with a friend of mine, Matt (another English dude) I met in Fuji. We found a perfect meeting place, a Hungry Jacks Burger Joint that had the worst, stale burgers ever, and met this crazy drunk Danish girl. And no lie. I promise no lie at all. Her name. Ceena. Ceena Cock. Incredible. I still don't believe it, but I saw it myself. Ceena Cock. Just brilliant. We Left Ceena Cock behind and went looking for a ratty strip joint.
The rattiest one we could find had a twenty dollar cover, and since I would have been paying most of it, we decided no, which broke poor Sasha's heart, she was all riled up for some greasy lady dry humping, but to no avail. So we retreated to a backpackers pub that blasted fantastically terrible dance and rave music and drank double jugs of beer and played crappy pool with no cue ball all night. It was perfect. Last call came so I bought 4 more jugs of beer, and then it was instantly time to get kicked out so Sir Dan Flemming and I were standing there with nearly two jugs each trying to put them down not to waste. It was a great idea at the time I swear. Then the cab ride home because public transportation was no longer available. And back to the house.
Saturday turned into Sunday and again we mostly all just layed in bed again being tired, smelly, hungover and generally happy. We laughed, I read them some stories I wrote, and then Sasha had to leave to catch a plane ride back to Sydney, and an hour or two later after a 38 dollar pizza delivery, Sir Dan Flemming took leave as well. It was Sunday afternoon and I think I went to sleep until Tuesday Morning. Bacchus Day!! Such a great day.
Bacchus Day indeed. I worked for a good 9 or 10 ours I think and then rode the old bike home and picked up some bottles of wine. I took to the wine as I do, punishing it well and laid on the ground stretching my back and listening to music. Sam Higgs came over about 8-8.30ish and we had ourselves some cribbage and wine. Cat had some wine as well. Sam went home, I had some more wine, went to sleep, woke up for another 10 hour day of work, and spent all 10 hours cursing and rejoicing in the splendors of a good Bachhus Day.
And so it goes. The rest of the last two weeks, some ups, some downs. Some smiles, some lonely nights, but in all, two more weeks were lived. Two more weeks away from being a dumb kid, and two weeks closer to whatever the hell I will become. Life.
Kendy Gable, DK, and myself of course, enjoyed ourselves at a pub called the Retreat. Nice pub, outdoor beer garden, and half outdoor room with lounge couches with a big open wall looking to the garden. Beautiful I say. We shared some rounds. I like that, when you don't just buy drinks for yourself, but you share rounds, I think it's the camaraderie of it, makes you feel included I guess. We had our laughs, lovely early evening. Just lovely. DK had to leave on a man dinner date, so Kendy and I held the floor for another round until my friend Sasha met up with us. Before Sasha arrived these two gorgeous little girls, probably three or four, just cute little things, one with bright, curly, blond hair and the other brown hair, both with lovely little sundresses, were playing hide and seek in and around us. I nearly died it was so fun to watch.
Sasha arrived and Sasha and Kendy seemed to get on like flies on shit (that is really well mind you, flies like to eat shit and then shit back on the shit, so even though the relationship is full of shit it is still a good one). More laughs and then Miss Kendy Gable needed to take her leave. And that left Sasha and I. It was a bit dark, and Sasha was a bit hungry, so we had a hoof around some local food stops but nothing caught her attention. Also, we were meant to meet up with Sir Dan Flemming who flew in from England, I love English people, some more than others, but I haven't met one I've disliked. I even like Hugh Grant. Shout out to Hugh Grant!! Anyway, Sasha and I headed back to where i am staying so we could contact Sir Dan Flemming.
Sasha was a fan of the walk, but not I, plus I had a bike. Only one bike helmet, no problem, we both couldn't wear it, so neither of us did, made sense to me. One bike, no problem, i put her on the seat and stood the whole ride back, and let me tell you it was a wobbly one, but one of my favorite things I've done in a while for sure. We rode for a good fifteen minutes and were seriously not one minute from the house when the police flashed their lights at us, gave us a good holler and scolding for not wearing helmets, and not having lights on my bike, mind you it was near eleven at night now, and for dinking Sasha. take it easy there people. Dinking here means to give somebody else a ride on your bike, like the seat or handle bars or something. I just like the term. Dinking. It just makes me smile.
I told them we were just ten seconds away and pointed in the direction of the house, trying my quickest move to avoid a hefty fine, which I did not want to afford, and my charm worked. Not really I think they heard my stupid accent, instantly thought I was then stupid, and told me then it would be a ten second walk. And we hoofed the rest. It took about two minutes on foot. Not too bad. We spoke with Sir Dan Flemming, and set up a Friday night for the three of us. Friday night started with drinking wine and playing soccer (or football) for a few hours, realizing it is high time we get back into better shape. Then to a hotel for showers, more wine drinking, drinking a Vodka Called Miisha, drinking some Johnny Walker Blue and meeting DK. It then turned into a Friday night of Sir Dan Flemming out with DK until 5ish and me passed out in a hotel by 11. I'm quite tired on Fridays. Friday night turned into a hungover Saturday morning where we stopped for a breakfast that was too big on the tram line home, met with cat and got a ride back, and then the three of us, Sasha, Dan Flemming, and I napping on my bed in the lounge room under the table, three to the bed for sure, for the afternoon, heavily tired. At about 5ish we stirred and I rallied people to a fish and chip run only a ten minute walk away. And we didn't return until nearly 4, and a thirty something dollar cab ride later.
The walk to fish and chips was far from wonderful. I mean if you like rain, raining on you, with a broken umbrella, and stuck at a train crossing for an additional six minutes after the train passed because of a faulty train warning system, while being rained on with nice leather boots soaking up all the rain so you have wet, soggy feet for the entire night, then yes it was wonderful. I do not like those things, so not wonderful. We bought far too much greasy, fried food. Well Sasha did, and I bought too much for two people. Sir Dan Flemming did it right, I think he only spent 4 dollars to my 21 dollars. I am ashamed. We were then off to find Sasha a filthy stripper, because it seemed like the right thing to do.
We became instantly sidetracked at a hookah and shesha bar called Ancient Memories, such a great name, where we smoked Strawberry Shesha and Watched Sister Act 2 on mute for over an hour, and developed a list of things to do that night. The infamous Cat met up with us and it was off to a local pub for jugs of beer, just the way I like my beer. We had some jugs, the power went out and taps went off so it was time to leave that joint. We said our good nights to Cat and hopped a tram to the city to meet up with a friend of mine, Matt (another English dude) I met in Fuji. We found a perfect meeting place, a Hungry Jacks Burger Joint that had the worst, stale burgers ever, and met this crazy drunk Danish girl. And no lie. I promise no lie at all. Her name. Ceena. Ceena Cock. Incredible. I still don't believe it, but I saw it myself. Ceena Cock. Just brilliant. We Left Ceena Cock behind and went looking for a ratty strip joint.
The rattiest one we could find had a twenty dollar cover, and since I would have been paying most of it, we decided no, which broke poor Sasha's heart, she was all riled up for some greasy lady dry humping, but to no avail. So we retreated to a backpackers pub that blasted fantastically terrible dance and rave music and drank double jugs of beer and played crappy pool with no cue ball all night. It was perfect. Last call came so I bought 4 more jugs of beer, and then it was instantly time to get kicked out so Sir Dan Flemming and I were standing there with nearly two jugs each trying to put them down not to waste. It was a great idea at the time I swear. Then the cab ride home because public transportation was no longer available. And back to the house.
Saturday turned into Sunday and again we mostly all just layed in bed again being tired, smelly, hungover and generally happy. We laughed, I read them some stories I wrote, and then Sasha had to leave to catch a plane ride back to Sydney, and an hour or two later after a 38 dollar pizza delivery, Sir Dan Flemming took leave as well. It was Sunday afternoon and I think I went to sleep until Tuesday Morning. Bacchus Day!! Such a great day.
Bacchus Day indeed. I worked for a good 9 or 10 ours I think and then rode the old bike home and picked up some bottles of wine. I took to the wine as I do, punishing it well and laid on the ground stretching my back and listening to music. Sam Higgs came over about 8-8.30ish and we had ourselves some cribbage and wine. Cat had some wine as well. Sam went home, I had some more wine, went to sleep, woke up for another 10 hour day of work, and spent all 10 hours cursing and rejoicing in the splendors of a good Bachhus Day.
And so it goes. The rest of the last two weeks, some ups, some downs. Some smiles, some lonely nights, but in all, two more weeks were lived. Two more weeks away from being a dumb kid, and two weeks closer to whatever the hell I will become. Life.
09 March 2010
02 March 2010
You get to thinking
I justify myself in the eyes of another,
because I am afraid of my fate.
The moments I've had are catching me up,
and no one but me is to blame.
Enough is enough, or is it enough,
when will the end be the end.
It takes more than me to set myself straight,
is it you who will be that friend?
I fear that each day I still let it pass
and harder and harder it becomes,
when will these choices prove to be problems
and no longer just chances of fun?
Is it now? Has it come?
Do I still have control of myself?
because I am afraid of my fate.
The moments I've had are catching me up,
and no one but me is to blame.
Enough is enough, or is it enough,
when will the end be the end.
It takes more than me to set myself straight,
is it you who will be that friend?
I fear that each day I still let it pass
and harder and harder it becomes,
when will these choices prove to be problems
and no longer just chances of fun?
Is it now? Has it come?
Do I still have control of myself?
01 March 2010
Who needs what?
Am I just a thief, was this never mine?
Have i stolen something that has never crossed my mind?
And on this lucky day I have felt the ringing in my ears,
for this clever taping for all your careless tears.
Rip me away. Tell me a lie.
I'm cleaning all these dirty moments with all your fatty lye.
And I come clean, so bright and new. I'm losing all these filthy
stains that I have accrued from you.
And settle down, sun on my skin. Just wait for one more painful moment
before you burn me again.
Am I a saint, brought here to save?
Do I speak words of wisdom from our fathers grave?
For this holy day I have seen the light cross from the sky,
all this filling in can't equal your divide.
Get on your knees. And I'm on mine.
Just one last confession of favor before I'm labeled divine.
And I speak out, for all to hear. It's just the words of faith
that all you doubters fear.
And find my calm, close my eyes and breathe. We tend to lose ourselves in saving
when all they need are seeds.
Am I a clown, shaping fears to joy?
Can I make a person cheerful by manipulating toys?
On this happy day we have seen you change your fit,
and all your silly smiles won't mask your broken shit.
So clap your hands, as I a paint a face.
And during these celebrations I will mask all your disgrace.
Have i stolen something that has never crossed my mind?
And on this lucky day I have felt the ringing in my ears,
for this clever taping for all your careless tears.
Rip me away. Tell me a lie.
I'm cleaning all these dirty moments with all your fatty lye.
And I come clean, so bright and new. I'm losing all these filthy
stains that I have accrued from you.
And settle down, sun on my skin. Just wait for one more painful moment
before you burn me again.
Am I a saint, brought here to save?
Do I speak words of wisdom from our fathers grave?
For this holy day I have seen the light cross from the sky,
all this filling in can't equal your divide.
Get on your knees. And I'm on mine.
Just one last confession of favor before I'm labeled divine.
And I speak out, for all to hear. It's just the words of faith
that all you doubters fear.
And find my calm, close my eyes and breathe. We tend to lose ourselves in saving
when all they need are seeds.
Am I a clown, shaping fears to joy?
Can I make a person cheerful by manipulating toys?
On this happy day we have seen you change your fit,
and all your silly smiles won't mask your broken shit.
So clap your hands, as I a paint a face.
And during these celebrations I will mask all your disgrace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)