The Day Before Monday, written in late-2012
The grave was adorned with flowers, or at least the spines of the flowers they once were. It was a cold morning, leaves drifted across the concrete words like gypsies looking for a place to lay their heads. The sun avoided the day. The clouds looked down over furrowed brow at the shade they created and they frowned even more. What a terrible waste of a Sunday. What a terrible waste of a world. They spoke with their mist. The trees swayed from side to side like tired or drunk people enjoying music. It was one of those days, those morose and futile days that existed somewhere between war and solace. The air smelled of soil and the impending rain.
People slept through morning and danced inside their dreams, dreams that would arouse them more than the real world ever could. Dreams of love and pain and sex and of the past. The awful astringent past. The beautiful saccharine past. They mumbled with their lips as their lovers did the same beside them. Mutters of adultery or sadness. They twitched and moved in erratic ways like a spider’s leg after it was pulled from its body. The morning was losing the darkness from the night before and the grey lining of doubt shone over the houses and fields and waters. It warned the world with its invisible eyes that a storm may come. It smiled sarcastically as the dreamers woke and rubbed their eyes with their fists.
The Sunday, like so many before it, fell away like rocks splitting from their father and falling into an ocean. The clouds laughed and the people wandered through the day with their hands still clenched into fists and their eyes still full of dreams. The grave became enveloped in fragments of woodland. Unreadable but warm. The day eventually fell into darkness once again, the bodied began to tremble once more under locked eyes. Sunday once again curled into a ball, took a heavy breath and died. What a waste. A terrible waste.
People slept through morning and danced inside their dreams, dreams that would arouse them more than the real world ever could. Dreams of love and pain and sex and of the past. The awful astringent past. The beautiful saccharine past. They mumbled with their lips as their lovers did the same beside them. Mutters of adultery or sadness. They twitched and moved in erratic ways like a spider’s leg after it was pulled from its body. The morning was losing the darkness from the night before and the grey lining of doubt shone over the houses and fields and waters. It warned the world with its invisible eyes that a storm may come. It smiled sarcastically as the dreamers woke and rubbed their eyes with their fists.
The Sunday, like so many before it, fell away like rocks splitting from their father and falling into an ocean. The clouds laughed and the people wandered through the day with their hands still clenched into fists and their eyes still full of dreams. The grave became enveloped in fragments of woodland. Unreadable but warm. The day eventually fell into darkness once again, the bodied began to tremble once more under locked eyes. Sunday once again curled into a ball, took a heavy breath and died. What a waste. A terrible waste.
Lost Things, written in 2011.
The black sky hung low like it wanted to whisper something into her ear. Like it was creeping in from the fields after a long day hunting for money between the
dry crops. She stirred and pulled the cotton up to her chin. Her eyes flickered with droplets of the dreams happening inside her mind. It smelled of nothing outside, the wind blew in the smell and kissed the fabrics that were spread in various fashions across the room. It had been a bad day again. She had expected
a terrible day as she woke in the morning and it was confirmed as such as the day stampeded along like a troop of horses on their oblivious way to war.
She stirred again as the breeze kissed her cheek. Her eyes cracked open like light creeping from under a door. The return to reality brought a feeling
of anguish upon her that she had been feeling before she fell asleep. The thoughts about how difficult the days had become passed over her like a river of
hot stones beating at her body, scratching her heart as they pebbled by. She shook her head at how she felt. Imagining the opinions of the people she knew if
they could read her thoughts, telling her how there were people suffering worse than her, how she should feel lucky for the things she does have and not focus
on those she doesn't have. It wasn't that she didn't have certain things that made the days hard, it was the fact that she had lost things she never wanted to
be without. Things that she held onto so hard that sometimes she felt she had pushed them away and lost them forever.
She stood and closed the window, stopping the wind in it's ornate invisible tracks. She slumped into the chair in the corner of the room and threw her head back at dramatic speed. The insides of her eyelids were showing her the things she hated to see yet couldn't stop looking at. They showed her the things she had lost, the people she had lost, the pieces of herself that had followed suit. She cried but her eyes remained a harsh dry. She sobbed into the air and sucked in breaths like they were being held from her by some translucent impossibility. The night stared at her through the window. She ignored it with irregular glances from the corners of her eyes. The day had broken her and she didn’t feel like putting the pieces back together until morning.
She slept until the day became afternoon and woke in a haze. The list of things she had lost lay folded into creased parchment in her head and she took to fixing her broken jigsaw body back into place again. The day before her was already maturing into afternoon and she thought perhaps she could ignore things until nightfall. Probably not chanted the tissue at the back of her skull. Probably not.
dry crops. She stirred and pulled the cotton up to her chin. Her eyes flickered with droplets of the dreams happening inside her mind. It smelled of nothing outside, the wind blew in the smell and kissed the fabrics that were spread in various fashions across the room. It had been a bad day again. She had expected
a terrible day as she woke in the morning and it was confirmed as such as the day stampeded along like a troop of horses on their oblivious way to war.
She stirred again as the breeze kissed her cheek. Her eyes cracked open like light creeping from under a door. The return to reality brought a feeling
of anguish upon her that she had been feeling before she fell asleep. The thoughts about how difficult the days had become passed over her like a river of
hot stones beating at her body, scratching her heart as they pebbled by. She shook her head at how she felt. Imagining the opinions of the people she knew if
they could read her thoughts, telling her how there were people suffering worse than her, how she should feel lucky for the things she does have and not focus
on those she doesn't have. It wasn't that she didn't have certain things that made the days hard, it was the fact that she had lost things she never wanted to
be without. Things that she held onto so hard that sometimes she felt she had pushed them away and lost them forever.
She stood and closed the window, stopping the wind in it's ornate invisible tracks. She slumped into the chair in the corner of the room and threw her head back at dramatic speed. The insides of her eyelids were showing her the things she hated to see yet couldn't stop looking at. They showed her the things she had lost, the people she had lost, the pieces of herself that had followed suit. She cried but her eyes remained a harsh dry. She sobbed into the air and sucked in breaths like they were being held from her by some translucent impossibility. The night stared at her through the window. She ignored it with irregular glances from the corners of her eyes. The day had broken her and she didn’t feel like putting the pieces back together until morning.
She slept until the day became afternoon and woke in a haze. The list of things she had lost lay folded into creased parchment in her head and she took to fixing her broken jigsaw body back into place again. The day before her was already maturing into afternoon and she thought perhaps she could ignore things until nightfall. Probably not chanted the tissue at the back of her skull. Probably not.
From The Porch - Written 2010
The old lady sat on an old wicker chair on her front porch. It was early morning and the sun was a burnt orange hanging low in the sky. She swayed in her seat,
staring out to the quiet road that ran alongside her home. Her eyes were glittering diamonds among a wrinkled face of experience and a quiet agony. She was alone now. Her home, once full with family and noise and laughter was now over flowing with stillness and silent echoes of what it used to be. The old lady chewed on her gums and took a deep breath of fresh spring air. The trees moved gently in the calm breeze as she pulled a shawl over her shoulder and imitated a shiver. It had been six years since she was widowed and even longer since she had seen her children. Her children who had began love affairs with far away cities, never to return. The old lady thought of them everyday and wondered if they did the same. She received letters from them every few months telling tales of finance and marriage and grandchildren and new cars. Each letter caused a bullet of pins and needles to blast through her chest for a few seconds until it subsided into a feeling of heartache. She kept the letters in a bundle under her kitchen table. She would often glance through them over a cup of coffee on the days when she felt she could handle the feelings they brought upon her.
The sun rose higher in the sky and she watched as the World woke up and drove their shiny cars to wherever. She watched old men tinker with engines and younger men walk by with their phones glued to their ears. She shook her head and confirmed to herself that she no longer belonged to this strange place she
viewed from her porch. It was early afternoon before the old lady’s stomach began to rumble with hunger. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a tall
glass of pineapple juice and made a tuna sandwich before taking comfort in her living room chair. She flicked through television channels and settled on a televangelist that was selling God to the masses for a reduced price. It was all very tacky and sad, she shook her head again and added “religious communities”
to the list of groups she didn’t want any part of. She still watched, as her late husband might say, for “shits and giggles”. She didn’t like when he cursed but looking back on it, it amused her. Her cracked lips straightened into a smile for a second before she took another bite of her sandwich. She sighed at the exhaustion that something as insignificant as chewing food now brought her. She put half of the sandwich down on the table and turned off the television. She brushed a few crumbs from her fingertips and lifted a small photograph album from the shelf beside her. She dusted its cover with her sleeve and opened it. Photographs of her family stared back at her from behind the cracked and wrinkled plastic covers. She slid one from beneath and held it closer to her face. Her husband, son and newborn daughter in their arms. The image was a beautiful memory that played like a video tape in the old lady’s mind. A small tear trickled down her cheek. She ignored it and after a few minutes of looking at the photograph she fell asleep with it in her hand.
Evening crept in like a prowling cat looking for a meal. The old lady woke to the sound of rain tapping at her window and after placing the photograph and album back on the shelf she stood and looked out to the road that had been bone dry earlier in the day. She always loved the sound and smell of rain but the feeling of it touching her body irritated her. She opened up a window and took in the smell. Her nostrils filled with the sweet scent of the outside. An hour passed as she stared into the street, she saw a few people pass by, running, laughing, trying to keep dry but not really caring whether or not they were successful. The rain stopped and the trees dripped pearls of moisture that landed comfortably on the grass below. She slept the night on the couch, afraid of the bed upstairs, afraid of what it might cause in her mind after such an emotional day. The old lady curled into a ball and pulled a cotton sheet over her legs. The pattering of the rain falling from the trees and the rooftops acted as a lullaby and sang her to sleep.
The wetness of the road had disappeared by the time morning came around. The sun shone and dried up the concrete, the grass and the leaves. Carpools and school buses went on their way and the humming of lawnmowers in the distance gave the impression that the rain might never have happened at all the night before. The old lady woke to the sound of mail hitting her doormat. She woke with a jump, kicking off the sheet from her legs are rubbing her eyes into focus. She scowled very slightly at the thought of another day. She hoped her porch chair would be dry and she went upstairs to wash and change her clothes. The smell of the house reminded her of why she still smiled from time to time. The odour of her late husbands cologne brought memories of nights out together in restaurants serving up expensive and artistically displayed meals. The smell of the books on the big shelf above the stairs reminded her of all the stories she would read to her children each night as they lay in bed. She picked one out and fanned the pages in front of her nose, breathing the dusty aroma in deeply and closing her eyes. The memories hurt but she would never trade them for anything. The old lady spent another day on her porch. The world went on its way, doing the things the world always does. She saw the usual sights and heard the usual sounds. Car horns, barking dogs, a soundtrack to what her life was now. A tape that was replayed each day and was almost comforting in its predictability. It’s obviousness. It’s routine.
It is often said by those who have truly felt alone in their lives that until you feel that deep and frightening abyss in the middle of your heart, you don’t truly know who you are. Whether or not that’s true is another matter. Perhaps these words of wisdom as they are habitually called are merely there to give hope. An act of kindness from a writer who feels sad. Maybe it is true, maybe it takes the feeling of being entirely lost and in great abandon before you can actually find yourself. The old lady sat for three more years on her porch. Some days she would cry, some days she would laugh at things she recalled. She read over the books from the shelf above the stairs again. She slept half of her nights on the couch and half in the bed she had shared with her one true love for so long. The old lady eventually went to sleep and just never woke up. Painlessly drifting into wherever we drift at the end. The photograph album sat on the shelf. She had been given it as a gift just weeks
before her husband had passed away. The message on its cover was one she always avoided reading. “Hope I don’t see you too soon, I’ll be waiting”.
Her children buried her beside their father and drenched her graveside with flowers and tears. The guilt they felt was deep and hot and they would always feel like
they never said enough how much they loved her. They went about their lives again and they thought, like they had every day of their lives, about their mother and their father and the home that they had grown up in. They would often stare at the city with bitterness as if it were some kind of kidnapper or magician casting a spell. They never sold the house, but each spring for a week or two, they would meet there with their families and remember what had been. They would crowd around the table in the living room and look at the photographs in the album on the shelf. They hoped and wished as hard as they could possibly wish that their mother and father were watching them.
staring out to the quiet road that ran alongside her home. Her eyes were glittering diamonds among a wrinkled face of experience and a quiet agony. She was alone now. Her home, once full with family and noise and laughter was now over flowing with stillness and silent echoes of what it used to be. The old lady chewed on her gums and took a deep breath of fresh spring air. The trees moved gently in the calm breeze as she pulled a shawl over her shoulder and imitated a shiver. It had been six years since she was widowed and even longer since she had seen her children. Her children who had began love affairs with far away cities, never to return. The old lady thought of them everyday and wondered if they did the same. She received letters from them every few months telling tales of finance and marriage and grandchildren and new cars. Each letter caused a bullet of pins and needles to blast through her chest for a few seconds until it subsided into a feeling of heartache. She kept the letters in a bundle under her kitchen table. She would often glance through them over a cup of coffee on the days when she felt she could handle the feelings they brought upon her.
The sun rose higher in the sky and she watched as the World woke up and drove their shiny cars to wherever. She watched old men tinker with engines and younger men walk by with their phones glued to their ears. She shook her head and confirmed to herself that she no longer belonged to this strange place she
viewed from her porch. It was early afternoon before the old lady’s stomach began to rumble with hunger. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a tall
glass of pineapple juice and made a tuna sandwich before taking comfort in her living room chair. She flicked through television channels and settled on a televangelist that was selling God to the masses for a reduced price. It was all very tacky and sad, she shook her head again and added “religious communities”
to the list of groups she didn’t want any part of. She still watched, as her late husband might say, for “shits and giggles”. She didn’t like when he cursed but looking back on it, it amused her. Her cracked lips straightened into a smile for a second before she took another bite of her sandwich. She sighed at the exhaustion that something as insignificant as chewing food now brought her. She put half of the sandwich down on the table and turned off the television. She brushed a few crumbs from her fingertips and lifted a small photograph album from the shelf beside her. She dusted its cover with her sleeve and opened it. Photographs of her family stared back at her from behind the cracked and wrinkled plastic covers. She slid one from beneath and held it closer to her face. Her husband, son and newborn daughter in their arms. The image was a beautiful memory that played like a video tape in the old lady’s mind. A small tear trickled down her cheek. She ignored it and after a few minutes of looking at the photograph she fell asleep with it in her hand.
Evening crept in like a prowling cat looking for a meal. The old lady woke to the sound of rain tapping at her window and after placing the photograph and album back on the shelf she stood and looked out to the road that had been bone dry earlier in the day. She always loved the sound and smell of rain but the feeling of it touching her body irritated her. She opened up a window and took in the smell. Her nostrils filled with the sweet scent of the outside. An hour passed as she stared into the street, she saw a few people pass by, running, laughing, trying to keep dry but not really caring whether or not they were successful. The rain stopped and the trees dripped pearls of moisture that landed comfortably on the grass below. She slept the night on the couch, afraid of the bed upstairs, afraid of what it might cause in her mind after such an emotional day. The old lady curled into a ball and pulled a cotton sheet over her legs. The pattering of the rain falling from the trees and the rooftops acted as a lullaby and sang her to sleep.
The wetness of the road had disappeared by the time morning came around. The sun shone and dried up the concrete, the grass and the leaves. Carpools and school buses went on their way and the humming of lawnmowers in the distance gave the impression that the rain might never have happened at all the night before. The old lady woke to the sound of mail hitting her doormat. She woke with a jump, kicking off the sheet from her legs are rubbing her eyes into focus. She scowled very slightly at the thought of another day. She hoped her porch chair would be dry and she went upstairs to wash and change her clothes. The smell of the house reminded her of why she still smiled from time to time. The odour of her late husbands cologne brought memories of nights out together in restaurants serving up expensive and artistically displayed meals. The smell of the books on the big shelf above the stairs reminded her of all the stories she would read to her children each night as they lay in bed. She picked one out and fanned the pages in front of her nose, breathing the dusty aroma in deeply and closing her eyes. The memories hurt but she would never trade them for anything. The old lady spent another day on her porch. The world went on its way, doing the things the world always does. She saw the usual sights and heard the usual sounds. Car horns, barking dogs, a soundtrack to what her life was now. A tape that was replayed each day and was almost comforting in its predictability. It’s obviousness. It’s routine.
It is often said by those who have truly felt alone in their lives that until you feel that deep and frightening abyss in the middle of your heart, you don’t truly know who you are. Whether or not that’s true is another matter. Perhaps these words of wisdom as they are habitually called are merely there to give hope. An act of kindness from a writer who feels sad. Maybe it is true, maybe it takes the feeling of being entirely lost and in great abandon before you can actually find yourself. The old lady sat for three more years on her porch. Some days she would cry, some days she would laugh at things she recalled. She read over the books from the shelf above the stairs again. She slept half of her nights on the couch and half in the bed she had shared with her one true love for so long. The old lady eventually went to sleep and just never woke up. Painlessly drifting into wherever we drift at the end. The photograph album sat on the shelf. She had been given it as a gift just weeks
before her husband had passed away. The message on its cover was one she always avoided reading. “Hope I don’t see you too soon, I’ll be waiting”.
Her children buried her beside their father and drenched her graveside with flowers and tears. The guilt they felt was deep and hot and they would always feel like
they never said enough how much they loved her. They went about their lives again and they thought, like they had every day of their lives, about their mother and their father and the home that they had grown up in. They would often stare at the city with bitterness as if it were some kind of kidnapper or magician casting a spell. They never sold the house, but each spring for a week or two, they would meet there with their families and remember what had been. They would crowd around the table in the living room and look at the photographs in the album on the shelf. They hoped and wished as hard as they could possibly wish that their mother and father were watching them.