In Blood
Dear Plexiglassfruit,
Of all the letters I may have sent, I have never written to my mother-- my real mother. I suppose I never believed that she was there, waiting, as recipient, and I'm not sure what I would have said, in years past, on paper.
My mother-in-law says she cannot imagine, as a mom, not being proud of me. She is very kind. There is pride, and Pride; and I have understood that for my mother I am on the cold inverse of the sentiment. Mother puzzles over me and makes comparisons. I tacitly admit the rationale. I make odd choices; everyone voicing an opinion, has told me as much.
Mother has graciously let it go after all, as notable, but uninteresting. We both know that I don't have anything to offer her--- I am useless as a backscratcher. There is simply nothing I can do for her, pragmatically. She has lived life as a sort of barter, with the eye on always coming up ahead. Having expected a man to take care of her, she has learned that money takes care of her. She steels herself to this state of affairs.
She told me a few years ago that, for Enlightenment, I am not ready.
(*My sister, yes; She has paid her dues, I suppose.)
I can only marvel at the confidence of the proclamation. I lay no claims, and wouldn't dare cast judgement... I guess I hadn't much thought about reaching Enlightenment, sitting out here in the dark peripheries of our misunderstandings. My childish hope was that we take care of each other.
If I were to write to my Mom, in abstraction of all that binds us in our interpersonal experience, I would write something she would likely dismiss as "dispassionate essay:"
Dear Mother,
Motherhood is not at all what I expected.
You cryptically said to me, a couple years in, when my child was almost three that "Now" I understand. Truly, I do not. I rather sense some discrepancies in our perceptions and acknowledge the inaccuracy of my own viewpoints. The insinuation I feel is that, now, presumably I understand what it is to be pegged. Saddled. Of course, with affection and responsibility. Because that is the sentiment that I associate with our family reflection of child rearing-- The burden wrought.
And I observe the key differences that may or may not have been fully voiced. That motherhood "happens" in different ways. It has been expressed as lament, in our family circle, as the limitation of self. The facts remain, Mother, that you yourself said you were "not ready," and my sister though eager, was "surprised" by pregnancy. You've each countered that I was so reluctant and calculated as to "sap the Romance out of it"... well, certainly everyone's notion of such fantasy is varied. I have never doubted anyone's Love, in the short- or long-term.
I understand that having a child, or children, is tiring. The state of being on alert, all the time, is not necessarily shared by all parents though. I have learned this in watching the families of my preschool students. I also know it, from being left, so often unattended as a child, without adult supervision; under the care of my sister, two years older, and sometimes not even that. I understand the impulse that sometimes overwhelms and makes a parent want to withdraw. I have felt it.
For whatever it was that made you want to pull away, Mom, I am sorry.
I hope I never hit you, pinched you, scratched you, spit at you, demeaned you or otherwise made you feel faced with contempt. I am wracking my memory for any such incident and cannot remember. And I cannot think of a thing more heartbreaking, abusive and demoralizing. A form of domestic violence that has no legal recourse, the abuser being a minor and outside of the law.
So, as you have doubtlessly wondered: what then do I think of Motherhood? I have found that being a parent is not aww and diapers, sleepless night and adventure. To be sure I expected it to be for lack of a better word, "work." I hoped for Motherhood, as an ideal; an opportunity I suppose. I was looking to be fully present, and now, have constant questions: Have I done the right things? Where have I gone wrong? What can I do to make a correction for my apparent, yet undeciphered, errors? ...for surely, the evidence shows, if only in my sight, I am doing something not right... to have fears about my child.
All of this, naturally, you are unaware. You are not here; the pictures sent show only smiles, and I have said nothing, except the underlying truth that yes, I am happy to be a Mom.
Perhaps it is of these misgivings that you speak of... when you suggest, "Now..."
M.
The Hymn of Rachmaninov
Lest the stench of burnt tobacco wafts into the rooms yond, I sit on my desire and hold in my piss.
There really isn’t much a thought in simply sitting, for it’s when I roam, that thoughts flash into my mind – it is some novelist, I think, I can’t recall who precisely, who said she thinks in “slow flashes.”
Alone the pressing procrastination of work adamant, and dawn imminent. It is 4:48 and the sky is that tinge of white blue so wan it fills the onlooker with a loving melancholy, an aching of the heart one hopes wouldn’t cease – yet it is wrenching, it tears at the soul and strains the material body. A cold, scorching feeling.
I wonder what awaits me. Likely scolding. But why do I deserve it? Already my own vessel guilts me, aware of every crevice: the choking in my throat and the snot. What more can I do but say “Yes.”
Yes, I understand my failures, I’ll do better next time. Yet right now it is the past, and I am capable of the act of “doing better.”
I must piss.
So run along, little rabbit.
A piece must be more than an indulgent documentation of one’s doing. And yet inside me a big hollow sleeps. Nothing comes out. You walk in and become that black bottle standing.
You know, my name floats in space somewhere, it’s nothing I am proud of, but it is something… although it’s deceptively my name.
There is no narrative to follow. This piece is over. I hope I could convey my utter hopelessness.
In a sense the short-lived – I’ve noticed, a pet phrase of mine – nature is reflective of my reality.
My name is
The Story Bone
I was blessed with a deformity. Linking my modulla-oblongata to my cerebral cortex is a story bone. I discovered this personal anomaly about six years ago, believing it to be just another part of a mostly scattered brain that seldom sees use, much like the part that is in there for the express purpose of deciphering poetry, or the way too thin slice that is supposedly dedicated to resolving algebraic equations; those sleepy sections of my brain which always lie lowest when called upon for duty, but I was wrong. It seems that for all of those undiscovered years this story bone I have was actually hard at work up there, collecting trivial data; facts, figures, moments, sayings, useful little behavioral oddities in myself and others. This little bone was observing, categorizing, possibly even unknowingly creating experiences to be gnawed upon at a later date. No one would have guessed there was something in there so hard at work. Well, maybe my mom might have guessed, certainly not my dad. My wife was absolutely flabbergasted to find that I had a bent for storytelling, but then we were twenty years “in“ when the bone was discovered, and my brain had given her few previous indications of activity… but then it wasn’t my brain she married me for, was it?
You have found your way to this site, so I will presume you to possess a story bone as well, though yours may still lie dormant, so that you have no idea what I am talking about. For this reason I will try an analogy to better acquaint you. With nothing else to compare this section of brain too, and having one currently lying at my feet, I have chosen to use a dog with a bone, thus the title. You have observed, I am sure, how when a free-willed dog happens upon a bone in the great out of doors she will pause before approaching it. She will circle it, inspecting it from many angles, giving it a wide berth and testing its scent before creeping still closer, her nose curious, her mouth watering, yet allowing her cautious instincts to remain predominant, as this is a confusing situation. ”Who,” the dog wonders as it creeps forward, “would leave a perfectly good bone right out here in the open where any dog that chances past might find it?” Who indeed? So the dog stops her creeping to take a sly glance around for a moment, her posture tense, her head lowered, her eyes raised wide, expecting… someone? But the way seems clear, and all smells kosher, so her nose sets back to working til she has crept overtop the bone. After one more quick glance she picks the bone up with careful incisors before dropping it again and taking a quick leap back, feeling out for booby-type traps. When nothing happens, emboldened, she will pick it up for real this time, harder, testing its mettle with her jaws. Satisfied she trots, prances more like, proud of her find to some more likely nearby locale where she can lie down in a dewy, grassy spot grown cool and thick under the warm morning sun. Here she will drop the bone again for another look around and give out a happy, slant-eyed pant before reaching a clawed paw to pull her treasure closer up between her knobby knees for enjoyments’ sake.
Now, hopefully you can see what I mean when I say “story bone”.
Because I am the same with a story as that dog is with her bone. Satisfied with this idea I have found I must take time now to gnaw over it, to claim ownership of it, and to give it a good working over until the delicious marrow is freed from it’s hardened shell to the delight of my more delicate senses… and hopefully to the delight of a reader’s as well, though that is not the end game. The real thrill is in finding that my curious nose was right! That there is something up there! Some indescribable sweetness inside that time-toughened shell of mine that has waited all this time to ooze satisfyingly out onto a late-night blue-screen. And I have used it enough now to know the bone is there to be dug back up at will and re-enjoyed, and oh, what a delightful pleasure that knowledge affords me.
I have a story bone!
Of course, I would like to write better, but not so much to the point that I would actually try to improve my writing skills. I mean, I have no interest in taking courses or some other such nonsense as that. It is more-so like a wish to be a better writer; a sophomoric fantasy like wanting to hit the big home run in the championship game, or to have the head cheerleader call me up after school one afternoon straight out of the blue. Writing better is one of those things that is never likely to happen, but is of little consequence regardless, as what I always was capable of was stealing home plate after a bunt single. And Meg Bell (who was certainly no cheerleader in the classical, nor costumed sense) did call me up after school one day with a rather incredulous offer, so… cheerleaders-schmearleaders, say I. Bigger ain’t always better! After all, in the grand scheme of things is a run scored not a run scored? Does it really matter how far the ball travels so long as you have rounded third base and are digging for home? Meg Bell would not have thunk so (but that is a different… and probably better story).
Say, where did I put that darned bone anyways?
But anyways, by wanting to “write better”, in my case I refer to the more refined aspects of writing; typing, spelling, sentence structure… the trivial technicalities of writing, those things that make a story easier for a reader to continue his navigation, and which possibly even makes the writing itself easier (I wouldn’t know much about that). You see, it is never my intent to write for perfection. I write for the juice of it… the marrow. I gnaw the bone. My words, when it is good, when they are good, come out of me with the build-up and force of an ejaculate. There is no time for punctuation. No room for worry. There is only a splatter on the page, with no thought of facial expression, or sounds made, or toes curled as the scene sets, watching as the character comes to life, waiting, his drama building. Not until “it“ comes, that is... the resolution; that deep breath at the ending, along with the realization that this thing that happened to my poor character did not and could not happen alone. There is someone here along with him to consider, someone coaxing him towards the final thrilling paragraph… a faceless, fantasy reader. Eee-cads! But I hope I have pleased this lover of stories as she has pleased me by riding along with!
And that is the time for sad reflection, the end. That is the time to recall the misplaced comma, or the run-on sentence, those uglinesses found in retrospection that will drive your reader into the welcoming arms of another’s words, and you to a lesser writing app where your short-fallings are as yet unrevealed. Proofing is not the fun part, though your reader will appreciate some careful, introspective examination of narrative styling and dialogue. Don’t be proud. Gnaw the bone. Skipping this step while caught up in a writer’s high is an easy though deadly mistake, and has embarrassingly driven more than one typo-prone writer away from Prose forever, thank God.
Fair warning: In your rush to share the tale, don’t fail to tell it well! Gnaw the bone.
I have been guilty of rushing myself, and most certainly will be again. I do get tired of proofing. Especially as my bigger OCD problem lies not with form or punctuation, but in seeking the perfect descriptive word, for the perfectly descriptive sentence. I am more particular about character names and settings than the reader could possibly care about. Those are the kinds of things I notice while re-reading and I change them, and change, and change them again while the poor grammar remains bleeding on the sidewalk in desperate need of resuscitation. It is good that I am not an EMT, else bodies would pile up while I straighten ties and re-apply lipstick.
I am very selfish with my story bone. I enjoy it best alone, so I dig it up in the early hours while the world sleeps. The bone is a fickle and moody thing, so I never know what I will get once it is unearthed. Sometimes it tickles me, and sometimes it makes me sad. Sometimes it is angry and sometimes grateful, or maybe those are my thoughts as I chew the fat of my mind, it is hard to say which, but no doubt it would not happen without the bone, so to it goes the credit. I have fashioned myself it’s tool, rather than the other way ’round. I do it’s bidding willingly, as I would miss it if it went away as I suppose it could, just as it appeared to me, dropped down from out of the ether.
So the credit for any success I have enjoyed through my Prose ramblings, the nine likes and two reposts, must go to my story bone, as I am nothing without it. It seeps the goods out while I merely chew and lick, and lick and chew until satisfied. And once satisfied I carefully re-bury the bone in its secreted spot so that it cannot be found by another. (Oh, to think of the joys Pooky-Bear might discover were she to happen upon my bone, and the stories she might tell from it, heaven forbid.)
So there it is, per ‘Ol Huck. If you want to be a writer, go to school and learn technique. But if it is stories you must tell, damning the formalities, then you‘ve got to be a dog. Go find your bone and chew it. Suck the life and marrow from it. Exhume it often and then re-inter it for another day.
So there. You are now in on the secret, and it is the only way.
Find your story bone, young pup, and give it a good gnaw.
Dear Apparent,
It maybe that there is no other passing like that of a parent. Except maybe a child.
I don't believe in ghosts. And I'm not concerned with what we can see, or not, but what we feel. I am already flawed in vision, lacking Gran's intuition, and Great-great-great-grandma's instinct. Always a child, I speak of spirit, passing. I cannot call it Death, Mother. You, yourself, taught me contra wise, the trailing off into the corners of the globe with your web.
Oxymomical profusion.
Mother is passing-- passing through. I through you, and you through me, divisible, in effect, and affect. Each of us, to nurture, our nature. Transparent, and opaque, a mirror of moving water.
You paused with circular needles, rain drops caught in the cool firelight of the moon, and asked What? in silence, knowing we could knit anything, a shroud even, but it would never be the right size to cover the length of us in the long haul. Flies and mites might be trapped and confused, for lack of fore or after thought. Like dust.
You nod off, into daydream:
"Death exists, in everything, always, for those who have never known Living."
I follow through to Mom, fully awake, as she drifts. Indeed, with Death we remain unacquainted, until personally introduced, like to Antimother:
"O, hi, Holiness," and we are one, in wave or handshake. The end all.
We pass, transparent... a part of the barren. Where there is perhaps only dissociated thought. The antonym of the womb. Both dark and secure. Still in a mothership.
Every being in existence carries on, beside itself. Cries, because of the living we ourselves are looping together (in or out of step), for joy or grief or uncertainty... eventually motherless momentarily, if only in perception... finding itself.
The Living... it lives, they live, even those insentient things live... in our animation. The lil bit of self that is invested, moves through, as our growing child. Clinging to the coparent inside ourselves. Animism, yes; the offspring of ourselves.
It has little to do with parenthood, as conception. Rather, that is a cloak, invisible. Adoption, I know now that that is central. To own the title, the ship and its lookouts. The periscope through which flows acceptance, for the soul we cover or uncover from the surface. We look out into the worlds, before our us, as transparent— needing our image, gesture, form, and word. We can carry, or bring to terms some buds, in a dark family wood, a stand of witnesses, barely webbed together in the canopy, borrowing the stars, as heirlooms.
We are rooted and belong only as much as we choose to open ourselves to a zephyr Matriarch that will whisper to those who are listening, twinkle, twinkle....
Holy mother of all, I know you have something for me... the labor of emotion...
...Life and its afterbirth.
Sincerely,
Rent
Wish it Were Different
Mom,
I'm sorry, from the bottom of my heart, for the pain I've put you through. Your first born succumbed to the pleasures and tragedies of the world. I've been addicted to horrors. My heart has only known pain and disappointment in the face of love. I've had no choice but to make solitude my best friend. How terrible it is to watch your child suffer, unable to do anything for them. You taught me kindness, compassion, and empathy, so I know you've felt my pain as if it were your own. And knowing that breaks my heart even further. I promise it was never intentional. I hope you never know just how awful I feel knowing you've suffered because of my actions.
I've gotten through unspeakable battles that you will never know about, but understand that I have become stronger because of them. I am wiser and even more compassionate from those things, and it is from your example that I was able to emerge from hell with even more love and empathy for the world. I hope that makes up for all the pain and tears that have fallen because of me. I hope you understand the love I feel for you even though you couldn't be there to help me or hug me when I needed it most. I cry every night hoping you don't hate yourself because of that. My son, your grandson, will be stronger because of it all. All because of you. I love you so much.
Love always,
James
I Am Insatiable
I want the likes, the challenge, the double shot of vodka in my lemon drop martini, on the rocks. I want to write at a bar, order and sip, write and publish, make people's jaws drop at my prose, my ability to shock and make noise in the literary world.
I just wrote a letter to someone and sealed it with a kiss, but isn't that how everything is on the internet? You put forth writing on a writing website, and people click 'like', without knowing that your saliva is all over the font, the punctuation kicking me in the gut every time someone comments.
I don't get recognized for my writing, or maybe I do. There's a condom ad where a dad is at a grocery store, and his toddler is throwing a temper tantrum, throwing all the produce on the ground, screaming and causing a scene. I wonder if my writing is used somewhere as caution, use protection, never whine and complain about your WASP life, because you have everything.
I am thirty-one. In one month, I turn thirty-two. Pretty obvious, right? Except that it’s not that easy when you’re suicidal, pushing the limits of your serotonin. When do I get famous? Probably never, and that‘s okay, that’s the logistics of both my genetic lottery and this game I play where I write out my feelings.
I am insatiable. I want to be the greatest writer ever created, until I look at the writing of Ernest Hemingway, and my dog who I named after him (we call him "Ern"), and see that his corgi legs are too small to hold the weight of my expectations about myself, that the real Ernest Hemingway is somewhere looking down, but not at me, at everyone else who wants a place in history.
This is all great, I'm sure - you'll hit the "like" button, or move on, or just forget this post ever got written. I'll drink my martini, the one I made a double, because the bartender asked, and I had nothing to lose - and now, I press "publish" and hold my breath that someone reads this and isn't lost in my line of thinking.
Mom,
Sometimes I catch myself looking too closely at the lines around your eyes. The way they paint your skin. I find them beautiful, this sign of age and love and life. An art piece designed by God and life and trials and happy moments. I try to remember when your skin was smooth. I can only see it in old photographs. I wonder what I will look like after living like you. Everyone always said I looked like you. An almost perfect match. It never felt that way. You are far too perfect. Too beautiful. Too strong. Too funny. Too much of everything I want to be and everything I will never be.
I catch myself remembering when I was younger. The moments when I was so small they may have been dreams. Everything was always loud. Too much to do. Not enough time for anything. I watched you. The way you ran about the house. Watching children. Cleaning messes. Cooking dinner. Making calls. Answering the door. I watched and followed. I wanted to learn. I wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t like the way you sighed into Dad’s arms when he came home. The way you seemed to disappear until one of us cried long enough for you to return. I tried to soothe them myself. It never worked, until it did.
They listened to me. My little brothers were soothed by the words I copied from you. I learned which books they liked best. My older brothers were tired and stressed. I learned the best way to make them laugh using your voice. I felt like you. I liked making them happy and I liked the way you smiled more often. Your wrinkles became more pronounced with bright eyes instead of tears.
I liked to be like you. I wanted to be like you. Until I didn’t. Surrounded with messes I didn’t make. Children that weren't mine. Food I couldn’t prepare. Calls I was terrified to make. Doors I refused to open. I became angry. I didn’t want to be like you. I felt like another mother. Another parent for siblings older and younger. I hated that I had your eyes. I hated that I had your voice. I hated that I shared your responsibility. But there was some light in your eyes, some of your laughter through the house. You were brighter in a natural way. You went out with Dad. You had time for friends I'd never met before. I could handle everything. I promised you. I really could.
And I did. I handled it all. I wanted to make your life easier. Juggling two jobs; one far too thankless and wageless. I could make it easier, even if it made me hate you a little more every day. I would make your job easier, but I wasn’t made to be a mother. Not yet anyway. From baby dolls and bottles to growing boys and homework in what felt like seconds. A stupid path I chose. I could feel myself crumbling into something I wasn’t. I looked too much like you, but I had a hatred that not even I could comprehend.
It wasn’t your fault. You tried. You really did. I insisted on it and you were tired. If I wanted to step up, who were you to say no? You and Dad could barely handle it on your own. I wasn’t going to let any of your efforts go to waste. I had promised myself and God. You would know you were loved and appreciated. My teacher taught me that imitation was the greatest form of flattery. You deserved more than just flattery.
I promise you it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes I still get angry at everyone, but never you. You were doing your best. I could never blame you.
And I still remember watching you, wanting to be you. I still want to be you. Maybe I’ll take a little break before becoming a mother though. I don’t think I’ll be as good as you. I’ll never have your warmth or your smile or your patience or your kindness. I think I lost it on my way here. But I have my first wrinkle. It’s next to my right eye. I saw it in a mirror. It’s more of a crinkle, but I noticed it when you said a joke. I know you said it just to make me laugh. To make me feel better. To make me feel like a kid again. To say sorry again for everything you couldn’t do for me before. You said you could never apologize enough. I told you once was enough, but I’ll take the extra laughter and the extra smiles. They remind me of yours just like the wrinkle of happiness around my eye.
I wanted to be like you too young. I still want to, but now I think I understand. You were never your responsibilities or your duties or your relationships. You were the scent of apples. You were the color green. You were your red hair. You were the upturn of your lips. You were your love of sewing. You were your many baking ventures. You were the person who loved shrimp. You were your kind words. You were your laughter, the kind so full and loud that everyone can’t help but laugh too. But most importantly you were the wrinkles forming on your skin, etching every happy moment of your life into a tapestry.
My tapestry is just beginning. My motherhood is not quite here. My wrinkles are just starting to form. I want to be like you. I want to be myself, amplifying every little gift you give me. You gave me life, sorrow, and happiness. You gave me everything I am. I only hope that I can live up to it all. But I know what you’ll say. You don’t care as long as I’m me, as long as I’m happy. I love you for that. I love you for every mistake you made, every lesson you taught me, and for every moment you made me smile.
Mom, I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I’ll never be able to thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. Though my childhood wasn’t perfect and neither was you, you were the best mother for me. You were everything I could have asked for and more. I love you and I can’t wait to see the rest of your wrinkles.
Love,
Your Daughter
Are You Gonna Go My Way
I swear and roll my eyes. It has been a day of one small thing after another going wrong. The last thing I want to do is drive all the way into Atlanta for a concert that I didn’t really want to go to and that I knew without any doubt that he definitely couldn’t afford. It’s one of those things he’s always doing. Spending money he doesn’t have. It drives me crazy!
As I lock the door to the convenience store, I let out a long frustrated sigh. I am beyond tired and my legs ache. Still, I know he bought the tickets as a treat for me. Lenny Kravitz’s music has always been in the background of our relationship. I can see how he would think of it as a way to celebrate our relationship. Still, what else could that money have been used for? I hope into my car and head home.
When I pull up, he’s already there, waiting on the doorstep in the rain. I try to plaster on a smile, and get out of my car. ‘Ya know, you could wait inside. It’d be a lot dryer.’ I try to keep the bite out of my words, but don’t quite manage it.
’You’d think so, wouldn’t you? However, your roommates disagree with you and think it’s far better that I sit out here in the rain. So kind of them.’ he bites back at me.
It’s my fault, this dislike between John and my friends. I can’t deny it. His ardour, his passion towards me scared me to no end. Add to that the fact that I was dating someone in our group, before John came in the scene, it was a recipe for disaster. I shake my head at myself. What’s done is done and there’s no way for me to change it now. What does he want from me? Love is a fantasy, a fairytale, one of those things people write about but doesn’t really exist. Growing up in my family, you couldn’t really think otherwise. ‘You could’ve waited in your car, ya know, that one right there.’ The minute the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could grab them and shove them back in. I know why he’s not in his car. He loves to play the martyr. I’ve just given him the perfect opportunity to do so by leaving work late tonight. ‘Never mind. Just give me a sec to change and we can head out. Do ya wanna come in with me?’
‘No, I’ll wait in my car,’ he says as he turns and walks away. I bite back the words of frustration and go on in. Five minutes later, I’m back outside and jump into his car. He’s angry, I can tell, but he’s trying to put a brave face on it. He’s trying to salvage this evening. He always wins bonus points for sheer determination. It’s how he won me over in the first place. From the first day we spoke, he told me that he knew we were meant to be together. I just laughed. That sort of thing doesn’t ever come along.
We make our way onto the interstate to head into Atlanta. The rain is miserable, and his wiper blades are not up to the challenge. We strain our eyes out of the windscreen, trying to see the road ahead of us. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to miss the opening act, but we should make it in time for Lenny,’ he says with a smile while he reaches across and takes my hand. I can’t help myself. I have to smile. Moments like these make me happy in spite of myself. He does some stupid things, but he also has one of the kindest hearts I‘ve come across. Lenny Kravitz comes out of the radio. ’Synchronicity,’ he says with a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. It’s his superpower. Whenever he needs a song to come on the radio, it does. If he is ever in a situation that a song can sum up perfectly, it magically comes out of the speakers. We’ve always joked about his superpower, but it really is uncanny. I give him my biggest smile and squeeze his hand and his eyes light up. I chuckle to myself.
As I turn my attention back to the road, we hear a bang, the car swerved and hydroplanes on the wet tarmac. John grabs the steering wheel and tries his best to turn into the skid. We slide across several lanes and I do my best not to scream. He manages to pull off onto the verge. The regular thump, thump, thump as we pull off leads no doubt in our minds. It’s a puncture. John puts the car in park and starts to get out of the car. ‘I can help,’ I offer. Goodness knows I know a lot more about cars than he does, but his chivalry prevents that.
’No, sweetheart, you stay here where it’s dry. I’m wet already, anyway. He disappears into the rain. I hear him rummaging around in the trunk. Some swearing penetrates the window panes and I can’t help but smile. He tries so hard. He is always so determined to make everything right. The swearing gets louder. I start laying odds on what has gone wrong this time. I feel like maybe I should double down on there being no jack in his car.
He opens the door and sticks his head in. Water is dripping from him everywhere. He’s rolling his eyes heavenward. His eyes lock again with mine and in the most deadpan voice says, ‘I think we’re going to miss the concert,’ he sighs, ‘no spare’. I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. This whole day was a comedy of errors and of all the things on his mind, he’s worried we won’t make the concert.
I continue to laugh, and after a moment, he joins in, together we laugh until tears are rolling down our faces. ‘Man, I love you.’ and I try to regain my breath when I notice that John has gone absolutely still beside me. He doesn’t move. It’s like he doesn’t even dare breathe. Everything seems to stop.
John whispers so quietly, I almost don’t hear what he says. ‘You’ve never said that before.’ Now there are tears in his eyes but for a very different reason.
there is nothi(l)ng there is nothing there is nothing the(o)re is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there (o)is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is (o)nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothin(b)g there is(e) nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is no(h)thing there is(i) nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is(n) nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing th(d)ere is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing why fucking bother why fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking both(y)erwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking bot(o)herwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking bother it is pointless it is pointlessit is pointlessit is pointlessit is pointlessit is pointless it is pointlessit is pointlessit is point(u)lessit is pointless
Insatiability
Insatiable is a word that hides a darker colder truth for it speaks of humanity's greed that crawls deeply and subtly in the human heart but displays itself for all to then see.
Forever yearning with a fierce hunger for what's not ours even with the wealth of all riches we have gathered is not enough.
Always craving and salivating over our neighbour's treasures never satisfied with what we ourselves possess. Our greed knows no bounds as we go in search still for more power.
Humility, a virtue can be lost
in the pursuit of vain thoughts.
We grasp for what we can
at the cost of swiping from the neighbour's hand.
How good would contentment and humility be so that no sense of grace and mercy towards another is lost in selfish vanity.
Therefore, it's a good idea to put greed and insatiability
back on the shelves and see the beauty in what we have.