My 2c

Posed

2013-11-27T05:36:00.002-08:00

All the world's a stage and all the men and women
Put on masks to strut upon it.
Masks and gaudy costumes
To hide they shabiness the feel within.

They hide their beauty behind layers of paint,
They flaunt what should remain hidden
For all the world to stare at.
Such love and energy
Wasted on affected ennui
Such beauty never seen
Eyes cast down fingers always busy

Learn to love what we all do
Learn to look like we do too.
If we say it is worthy of admiration
It is so, never question.
Never ask why or by what virtue it deserves
To be so admired above ll others more worthy
Just go along, follow me and me and me...

Speak just so
Strive for perfect diction
But did you know
That truth is more beautiful than fiction.

Ramblings in the night

2012-02-24T04:15:00.002-08:00

I wrote this one around October 2005 one sleepless night.

Far from home and all alone.

It's so still,

Not a sound to be heard.

I'm unique, I'm one of a kind

Yeah I'm the only one here going out of his mind

"Do not go gentle into that good night"!?

Oh Mr Thomas you were so damn right.

New Beginnings - another short story ;)

2012-02-12T13:07:00.001-08:00

“Motherf...”

Not again. When are these idiots going to finish this damn road? Does it really take three years to upgrade a bloody road? If I worked this bloody slowly I’d be out of a job by now. Whoever said 'change is as good as a holiday' must have been smoking their socks. Don’t need any change here. I'm enjoying the view from this rut. Bloody idiot construction workers.”

This was the monologue in Carl's head as he was driving home. It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon in the Mother City with all the attendant hallmark images of butterflies and birds fluttering in a multitude of breezes but all this was lost on Carl who's attention was firmly taken up by his one-sided dialogue with the construction workers walking or standing along the side of the road who were taking no notice of him. A few were visibly amused by the irate motorist's tirade and this infuriated Carl even more. He swore at everyone from the oblivious workers to the drivers in front of him who were, according to him, “driving like bloody virgins” to the “bloody idiot DJ” on the local radio station.

Carl was not by nature an intolerant or even a violent person. Driving just brought out the reptilian side of him. As did anything that upset his well-ordered world. Carl also hated being late; which he now was. He was taking his girlfriend Emily to the doctor this afternoon and he was already ten minutes late picking her up. She hadn’t been feeling too well the last few days and had been putting off going to the doctor. Carl had finally convinced her to see the physician, making the appointment himself.

The doctor's office is full and despite the appointment they still have to wait,. This does not sit well with Carl who feels that having gone to the trouble of making the appointment they should not have to wait. Emily however seems unperturbed if a little green around the gills. When they finally get in to see the doctor he asks the usual questions while placing his hand on various parts of Emily's abdomen nodding sagely at her replies.

“Does this hurt? Does this hurt? What about here? And here?” and on it goes. Emily is finally sent off to pee in a cup leaving Carl alone with the doctor. The silence seems to deepen and Carl cannot stop fidgeting. The doctor seems not to notice his discomfort all the while scribbling in Emily's file. Carl stares out of the window seeing nothing wishing Emily would return. Finally the door opens and she walks in triumphantly holding her cup of yellow liquid aloft.

“Just put it down there please, my dear.” says the doctor indicating the edge of his desk all the while scribbling furiously. Finally he gets up and removes a strip from a container, inserts it in the urine, immerses it for the requisite amount of time, removes it, places it atop the container and returns to his chair to scribble some more. By this time Carl is beside himself and is seconds away from jumping over the desk and shaking some life into this “idiotic excuse for a physician”. Only Emily's firm grip on his hand restrains him. Finally the doctor gets up, looks at the strip, checks again as if to verify the result and turns to both Carl and Emily and says, “Congratulations Mr and Mrs Simmons...”

“We're not married” interrupts Carl.

“We're not Mr and Mrs Simmons.”

Emily shoots him an irritated look and increases the pressure on his hand.

“Well we're not.” says Carl sulkily.

“Please continue doctor.” says Emily.

“Where was I? Oh yes. Congratulations you're going to be parents.” he frowns and looks at Carl as he says this as if wondering whether that would be such a good idea.

“See here there are two lines and THAT means that you're pregnant.” he continues pointing at the strip while waving it in front of their faces.

Emily has let go of Carl's hand and has taken the test strip from the doctor and is examining it as if to confirm the diagnosis.

“Bloody hell!” thinks Carl.

“Bloody, bloody steaming cow dung from hell!”

“Oh my word, babe. Isn’t it amazing? Oh my word!.” gushes Emily, her nausea and other assorted ailments forgotten for the moment.

“Lovely.” replies Carl through clenched teeth.

At home Emily is already making plans for where the baby's room will be, what colour to paint the walls what they should name the baby; in short all manner of things that cannot be decided on immediately but that she feels should be handled right away. Of course they have to move into a bigger place. Their child should have space to play and explore and discover and set his/her mind free to soar to the highest peaks possible so that he/she can fulfil his/her full potential...blah blah blah. Carl is brooding, mourning for a freedom he is about to lose. He resents already the little cluster of cells growing and multiplying (plotting, to Carl's annoyed brain) inside Emily's womb. Conspiring to rob him of what little freedom and spare time he has left. While Emily is traipsing through the flat he is sitting on the couch staring at, but not seeing, the soccer or rugby game (he cannot tell anymore and does not care) he is pretending to watch.

Early the next morning he is up and out the door giving Emily the usual peck on the cheek as she also gets ready for work. Stuck in the left-over high from the revelation at the doctor's office she hardly notices how detached and uncommunicative Carl has become and puts his silence down to the shock of his imminent fatherhood. She does not think for even a second that he cannot be as giddy with excitement as she is. The day goes quickly for both of them and at the end of it they find themselves seated side by side on the couch with a bowl of microwave popcorn and the late night movie as is their custom. There is little communication as every movie night and Carl can almost delude himself into believing that things are as they have always been and have not changed. That is until Emily breaks the silence by asking, “Do you think Martin is a good name if it's a boy? Martin was my dad's name and I’d like him to have a little bit of his granddad you know?”

“Uhh hhumm.” is Carl's only response.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“You want to name it Martin after your dad I got that. I just don’t have any feelings on the subject one way or the other. Do whatever you like.”

The argument that follows is a battle of two stubborn wills. A titanic storm of recrimination and resentment. Things are said that cannot be unsaid and demons are dredged up from the past that were best left buried and undisturbed. The next morning in the aftermath of the biggest fight of their relationship it seems that the temperature in the flat has dropped by a few degrees. Polite greetings and how-are-you's are exchanged as if they are strangers meeting for the first time instead of the intimate lovers they had become over the many years of their shared life. It seems their relationship has been broken and each blames the other for the break. They live like this for days and then weeks and all the time the stifling atmosphere chokes a little more of whatever life had remained in their relationship until all that is left is a lifeless shell of what had once been. After three weeks of living past each other Carl comes home one day to find that Emily has moved out; left with everything she owns. He reads the letter she has left him and does not recognise the woman he fell in love with in those words. Does not recognise the way she describes him. Surely he is not as she sees him. He does not hate their child. Does he? He sits alone on the couch and stares at the television and sees nothing and hears nothing lost in a world of shock at the loss of the woman he loves and anger at her for making this all his fault. He moves from being completely in tears one moment to anger of such strength that he feels he could punch through walls and break things. Of course he doesn’t as that would cause a mess and then he'd have to clean it up but he placates himself with imagining smashing every cup and plate against the walls and leaving it all lying on the floor. He gets up every morning and goes to work and comes home after to cook supper and sit alone on the couch he once shared with Emily aching to have her close again, needing to feel her in his arms, dying to apologise and beg her forgiveness but too proud and stubborn to do any of those things. And so he sits alone as the days drag into months and the wounds on his heart scab over and harden. He calls daily to ask how Emily is and accompanies her to the check-ups and doctors visits and has seen the scans and ultrasound results. They are having a boy and have decided to name him Martin after all. Martin Simmons.

Emily is due at the end of June and on the twenty-fifth of that same month Carl is required to attend a conference in another city. He cannot refuse, that much is made clear to him, so he dutifully boards the plane and books into the hotel and sits through hour after hour of mind-numbing lectures on subjects that no-one but the lecturer finds fascinating. He gorges himself on free conference food and networks like all the other attendees but all the while his mind is elsewhere wondering whether Emily has gone into labour, whether her water has broken. Surely she would call if it had. Wouldn’t she?

“So yeh we tried for years and spent obscene amounts of money on it and nothing ever came of it.”

“Sorry what were you saying?” asks Carl

Laughing, the other man at the bar who has suddenly befriended Carl and has started telling him his life story says, “I was saying, my good man, that Fiona, that's my wife, and I had been trying to have kids for years. Cost us an awful lot of money but it just never took, you know. The attempts nearly broke us and almost ended our marriage. In the end we had to call it quits and accept that we were not meant to be parents. Took us a while to accept it and lots of therapy but we came to terms with it and moved on. Those lucky buggers out there who fall pregnant at the drop of a hat, or a pair of pants, are the lucky ones. What I wouldn't give to have a son of my own to...”

And Carl was off, running out of the bar to the astonishment of all the patrons.

“Hey was it something I said?” was the last thing he heard as he rounded the corner and headed for the stairs taking them two at a time in his haste to get to his room.

The door opens and Emily is standing there arms crossed and looking daggers at him standing on the doorstep.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Can I come in, please?”

“What for?”

“We need to talk. Please.”

“I don't have anything to say to you, Carl.”

“Please let me at least say what I've come to say. Please. I miss you and I love you.”

“Fine.” and she steps aside to let him in.

They sit down in the sitting room he on the couch and she on a chair. She glares at him and says “Well get on with it then.”

“Emily.” begins Carl. “I miss you. I was an idiot and a fool. I was immature and stupid and I never meant to say the things I said. I am miserable without you and I couldn't go on without you. Please give me another chance. I couldn't go on living without you and Martin in my life. I was an idiot and a fool and...”

“Stop. All this means nothing to me. You hurt me that night and now you come here and expect that these words will get you back in my life? Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because I can't live without you. You are my life. You and Martin. I am going to be a father. I finally get what that means and although it scares me I want to do the best by him that I know how. I want to do the best by both of you. I am begging you to please give me another chance. Please Emily.”

She looks away a tear sliding down her cheek.

“I want to believe you but I'm scared that you'll hurt me again. I couldn't take being hurt like that again. Not ever.”

“I promise that I will never do anything to hurt you ever again. I am so sorry. I know how inadequate those words are but I hope you can hear the sincerity behind them.”

She turns to him tears pouring from her eyes. A deluge of emotion. He gets up and walks to her and takes her in his arms. No words are spoken, none need to be spoken. Their hearts are whole once again. They hug and kiss and cry and hug some more, rather awkwardly with Emily's bump in the way and for the first time in many months they both smile.

“Tell me.” says Emily after they had separated and were sitting on the couch holding hands, “What was going through your head that night.”

“Do we have to go there? Please can't we just put it all behind us?” pleads Carl.

“I want to know. I cant just pretend it never happened. I need to understand it.”

Rather reluctantly Carl tries to explain to Emily how he had stupidly resented the baby's intrusion on their lives and had somehow become angry that their lives were going to change so drastically. He had had months to think it all through and analyse everything that had been said and left unsaid.

“So why did you come here today and pour your heart out so spectacularly?” asks Emily.

“I realised that I had thrown away what many people struggle their whole lives for and I finally saw what an ass I was.”

“Aww that's so sweet. You're right you were an ass but I love you, babe”

“I love you too, hun.”

Sunrise

2012-02-12T11:50:00.000-08:00

I wrote this one in February 2008 after returning home from England. I was inspired after driving to work one morning and seeing the sunrise for what felt like the first time and realising how many of us take the gift of sight and of life for granted and do not appreciate the priviledge of seeing these things daily.

The horizon is ablaze
I see the light spreading left and right
Creeping inexorably forward
It is beauty, it is splendid.

I look around me
I point at the sight before me with an idiotic smile on my face
It seems to stir no emotion in any others
All around me I see shuffling forms
Preprogrammed robots stepping through their intricate algorithms
Placing a tick next to one item after the other on the to-do list of the day.

Have you an entry there that says, “Lift my head and admire the glint of sunlight on cold steel
that seems cold no more.”?
It is imbued with life almost
It looks not so stark anymore
Is there an entry that says; “Wake up early and admire the dawn.”?

See the flames of Sol spread across a cold, dark, sleeping world,
touching every exposed surface
I feel its warmth on my cheek now
Like a lover's lingering kiss.

Untitled - a poem

2012-02-12T11:27:00.000-08:00

I wrote this one in October 2005 when I was far away from home in a foreign country. It is one of many from that time that I have never shown to anyone and never put on any type of public medium...until now. Hope you like it.

I'm standing on the edge looking down.
I know I shouldn't jump
But I will.
I'll die if I jump
But I will.

With every step that brought me here
And every single day,
I wanted to stop and turn back
Go a different way.

But I didn't
I should have taken a different path
But I didn't
Taken that road, followed my heart
But I didn't.

Is there still time to turn round?
There might be.
Is there time to start over?
There might be.
Can I take the right road, be a man?
I can!

Taking the first step - a short story

2012-02-09T02:32:00.000-08:00

George sits on the roof of his building admiring the view. He can see for miles around despite the fog and the city looks so peaceful from up here. It's early but there are already a few early birds scurrying around. It's like an ant farm down there already. He remembers having one as a kid and he recalls how the ants would run around in confusion when he'd shake it. He thinks that the effect would be the same if he were to drop in on the people down on the street unannounced.

His shoes are next to him on the ledge and he removes his wallet and cellphone and places them there as well. They're a good pair of shoes, one of his favourites but they've seen better days. He remembers the day he bought them. He had been in the mall and had seen them in the window of a shop. They were just what he had been looking for and on the spur of the moment he'd bought them. That was a long time ago. There wasn't money for such indulgences these days and this particular pair had been to the shoemaker for repairs many times.
It's getting warmer now and brighter. The morning mist was dissolving before the fierce resolve of the rising sun and it wouldn't be long before someone spotted him up here on the roof and raised the alarm. Better to do the deed before that happened.
"Cop shoots wife and then himself" was yesterday's headline. Cops are very partial to suicide it seems. He wonders what will be his headline tomorrow.
" 'George goes splat' perhaps", he muses with a grin. "Will I even make the papers", he wonders, "or will I just be a footnote; a little echo to all the anguished screams reported on from around the world?"
" 'George goes splat and doesn't even make a ripple' "
"That sounds more appropriate and would sum up my life quite nicely."
It's time. With joints popping he gets to his feet.
" 'A journey of a thousand feet straight down begins with the first step' to paraphrase Chairman Mao.", thinks George wryly. A movement to his right catches his eye. He turns to look and notices that his wallet has flopped open and looking straight at him with a disapproving look is his wife Lydia.
"Don't look at me like that." says George softly.
"I need you, George," says Lydia, "And so does Amy."
Amy is George and Lydia's six month old daughter and this entire conversation is taking place inside George's head. Not that, that makes it any less real for George. Mental anguish has a way of breaking down the barriers between the real and the imagined world.
"But I failed you and I failed Amy. Why would you want to be stuck with someone like me who can't provide for his family."
Tears are streaming down his face and the view from the ledge is now badly distorted.
"I married you for better or worse my love. Come back to us. Please come back to us. We need you."
George takes a final look at the photo in his wallet and with tears in his eyes steps off the ledge.

Lying in bed that night with Lydia's head on his chest George recalls the headline he had made up that morning.
George goes splat
He smiles.
George overcomes adversity with his family by his side
A bit long but a much better headline.

Teenager's lament

2012-02-01T23:21:00.000-08:00

Do you see me sitting here
Under this tree?
Well don't you come near
Stay away from me.

Where are you?
Why have you gone?
I didn't mean it.
I don't want to be alone.

Dont walk away.
Please stay.
I need to talk
I have so much to say.

Yeah go and preach to someone who needs it!
See me,
I'm fine,
I don't wanna hear it!

This is me all alone
And I love it.
This is me all alone
And I hate it.