REPORT A PROBLEM
Emotions are pebbles in the sand. From a distant they are indistinct from each other lumped in a brownish tan mass. With closer examination, they shine with their own iridescent luminosity, individual and distinct. They are pelted and shaped by the elements, shaved away and broken and sanded down to a precious core. Take care of the pebbles you find as you walk along the shore, pick some up and examine their beauty. Take them with you, polish and display them. Hold them in your hands and feel them become soothing and warm. Share them with people you care about.
She straddles the long black vinyl of torture pushing up in burning agony. Panting pain and unused muscles buried under the luxury of life's banquet. She pushes, pulls, twists and contorts herself. Does she do it to breathe in the sweet solid health of life or is it vanity's whim to slink across the room in a fashioned statement of artistic statement. Does her image reflect her being or does her being reflect her image and can she cut out and paste herself into who she wants to become? Perception versus reality is the combined effort of a visual essence.
Floating in the abstract, stepping on dangled lights, she reaches out to find herself missing. Where has she gone as memories' past colours blend into musty muddied brown. She can only go forward into darkness unable to see herself beyond this moment. She has been shaped into something non-recognizable to herself. Others look upon her with the clarity of seeing the colour over-layed in recognizable form unable to bear witness to the underbelly of her shape. She is happy, living the moment, free from the angst of her days but is unsure as to the sureness of her next step.
The stories of our childhood recreated over time change our memories. Stories become crisp and relevant once they have been filtered and changed to reflect who we have become. What we choose to remember and how we choose to remember creates a history of who we are. Our histories are ever changing and our past becomes our fiction, our words, our expression of who we are becoming. To attempt to sort through ourselves and our stories, the pieces that matter at any given time is to discover the depth of who we wish to become. Our dialogues are ever-changing us.
The wind blows breezes across the tinselled window of his childhood. Drifting in and out of consciousness as words splay across the nakedness of his back. He cries out silently knowing that there is no-one to ease his pain until she came along. She placed her arms around the narrowness of his frame and rocked him gently in his tears. She loved him for all that he was and is and covered him in her warmth. But life does not hold a forever care and in the end his pain drowned out her own. She left to find herself. Alone.
The warm glow of a half eaten apple casts across the stream of consciousness that is my mind. Sipping from shallow graves of living dangerously, I wander in the corners of twisting corridors. Move forward tiny bumblebee working for the sweetness of the moment. Fall back and lose yourself in the sting. Dance in dreams of woven fibre, grey and coarse beneath my touch. Slide across a silken web shadowed green. Fling yourself across the bluish orange evening of watered sunset. A sigh and a whisper, you are back amongst laughter, crunchy chips and the sweetness of a chocolate caramel.
His passion is ruled by the thumping rat a tat and the pounding of this and that in perfect harmonious rhythm. His passion is ruled by the soft breathe of her scent and the stilting lilt of her speech. His passion is ruled by the softness and hardness of contradiction and the way her soft small hand soothes the numbness of his sadness. His passion is ruled by the breeze in the trees and the sound tapping into his heart. His passion is spread out across the ages buried in the dark earth and soaring through the molecules of life.
The vision before me is various women strewn about the stage in a dance celebration of beauty. They come in all sizes displaying strong bellies of varying degrees in movement of sensual beauty dancing in an age-old celebration. I watch and am amazed at the seemingly confident movements from the young and the old alike. In my head, I am already there and look forward to the jittery day when I stand proud in myself and learn the movements displayed before me. The colourful costumes of splendid design and movement float before my eyes in warm inspiration. The belly shakes.
In a long flowing skirt of hippie corporate wear, she pounds on the keys in a languished staccato fashion. Her hair has become hip in a versatile stance she is able to create a personal position depending on circumstance. The business of her days become the recycled hours of her nights with money to spend but lacking in time to relax. Fifty seems too far off suddenly and the days of retirement seem pricelessly obscure in the time to travel and longing in words created from the images of the pictures she snaps. Pondering curves across lines of obscure dreams.
A blue and red array of sparkled bulbs shining across red balls of fire in a glow of all things holiday. Gold and silver trimmings adorn the floor beneath the starlit branches. The red velvet hangings of wide empty gaps reach out for favours from you to me and me to you and he to you and he to me and me to him. A moment of melancholy drapes across my arm in memory of before and the way we were and the way I was and those times we giggled in poverty as we tried to create a home.
The flash bulbs crashed and pinged across the room in side-by-side unison as we capture you on the various stages of concert creations. I wonder how you see us, your extended family of four parental units vying for your attention, lavishing our eyes upon your form. Your strange little family together in care for you while others see only the two. In earnest we love and want your happiness to be secure in floating warmth of comfort. That night you lay beside me expressing love for me tiny for not much longer hands upon my face and I felt comfort.
The never ending voices in my head compel me forward, keep me backwards and string along a fairy tale of lies and love and strange compulsions. The recreated images of memory and the retelling of my stories leave me dizzy and lost, left to wonder who or what I really am. Dreams of blood strewn death and wanton lust compiled of characters I recognize in different forms leave me breathless across a vertigo ledge. Reality's true form has yet to reveal itself to my sight and yet glimpses I catch as I drift through my days. Mine own virtual life.
Cool wandering rushes of air chill the ear and lunges across the icy fingers of a parking lot filled with the rushed rudeness of shopping fears. The joy of buying for loved ones becomes madness of insecurity, dollar counting and panic ridden thoughts of must get now fast hurry push trample stomp frown. I linger in the section and am jostled and hit, almost pushed over in the rush to fly down aisles of coloured plastic packaging. Will I continue to hum with gingerbread breath of Christmas past? Will I fall into the angry furrowed brow of a honking car.
The day is spent in relaxed wanderings of chocolate wafts and sticky fingers tasting suckling the warmth of melted sighs. The candlelit glow of you in frantically sensual movement melting bones as skin slides across a sigh. The warm taste of sweetness burrowed into curves of wanton soft slickness and I cast myself across the sky of today's warm happy. Golden liquid pours through me in a warm inhalation of fuzzy dreams of the hovering of mind over top a languid body cast in floating air. Twinkle twinkle little light casting warmth across a pine scented ornament of December's holiday.
The boardroom is full of coloured plates and plastic forks, disposable recyclable tokens of food. A room gorged and bulging with treats and smells wafting up across the hall to my desk. A plate piled high and the feasting begins as conversation floats up and down the empty desks of work piled high. The work potluck is a preening of dishes made up in a world beyond the skylight of buildings across a concrete dreary car tar world. The fumes outside are frightful and the world is not delightful but the food inside is sweet and tart and warmly lightful.
Her world of disregard and dismay can no longer be allowed to taint the colours of my rainbow. There was a time when the colours of the rainbow stung my eyelids and the longing for the blackness of nothingness caressed my heart but now brightness and the colours leap, dance as my heart expands. She steals my colours and uses them to paint the streaks of her life leaving me waiting in a cloud of grey, used and discarded. It is time leave the colour thief to her own devices as I move forward in my own time and world.
The dark shadows creep in and zoom around and splay their crooked fingers across my heart. Insecure welts slashed across the surface of my fears and I strike out at you in blockage and anger forcing myself to become the very thing that I despair of. An ugly lump of greyness encircles the corners of my brain and the coldness descends across my face. Tears circle the warmth of flowing blood. The ugly creature emerges briefly before I push it down while it continues watching, waiting for opportunity to dance out into the open, freely wreaking havoc on my life.
Two more days to go. Two more days to go. The never ending chant inside my head as I muddle through the last two days of work all the while stuffing myself with the stuffing of food circulating the floor roasting my guts with burnt turkey. Two more days to go until I can relax under the darkened light of pine smells and coloured bulbs of blue and red hugs. The squeal of paper ripping and the buzz of Christmas cheer away from the spastic elastic corporate scream of work. Two more days to go. Two more days to go.
She leans back in her chair and stretches out her arms melting into purple polyester pleasure as her legs stretch out relieving the numbness of too much food on an already stretched out gluttony of inhalation. The buffet stretched before her with taunting jabs of sweet guilt and her brain says no but her body mechanically keeps pumping in the ever surmounting amass of caloric cream. The food keeps wafting up readily available and stronger than her will power. Next week will be no different so she smiles self-indulgently and readies herself for January's denial and gym pounding of sweat.
A drunken haze of sweetened cherry tucked in between two coloured straws. A laugh expelled with a whiff of smoke and the friendly chatter of friends high colour. The room fills with prowling figures, men dressed a la friends leaned back with a sweat sheen of cool above their leering eyes. Women tramped out in blackened eyeliner, bulging breasts pushed out of tightened cloth dance around on teetering heels and I wonder how they daintily trudged through the snow. The smell of sickened perfume lingers and bounces across my nose claiming territory amongst the tart musky smell of manhood. Clubbing.
A plastic red booth and a side of tiger sauce. Melted cheese on salmon a top a warmed egg decorated with the salty caper of heaven sent breakfast. A sip of strong coffee and a dangle of a cigarette cough amidst the hum buzz drone of conversations' laughter. We sit in Sunday brunch tradition with blues playing in the background warming ourselves in the lightness of familiarity and I look into your eyes and I am more in love than yesterday's yesterday. The week stretches out in warm caress, with short days and long night's surrounded by my lovely loves.
Honk, screech ... move over lady. The blaring noise of traffic slow and thunderous as my leg twitches over the clutch. The parking lot search for a spot, any spot ... damn bitch stole my spot. The scramble for a shopping cart and I enter the mayhem of last minute shopping for Christmas dinner. Screech, oops sorry aisle mangling on a wobbly wheel as I dance and whirl in a dervish of loopish throwing of items into an all ready overflowing cart. I came to pick up a few items and ended up with hundreds. Back into traffic siren-blaring hell.
The new crisp pages fill the store with colourful glossy bindings. The knowledge and thought burned out in sweat and pain fly out at me across an artfully arranged shelf. The smell of coffee's richness reaches out its long finger and beckons me to a corner of retreat to drink and read in solemn care as ideas fly in and out of the snapping neurons of my thought. I could spent a thousand days trapped in these walls and never go hungry, never want for more than the adventures trapped beneath the pages of these books trapped in these walls.
Soft smells of pine tree and a glow of sunken care. Snuggled into cashmere dreaming in black and white wishes of integrity and goodness. It's a wonderful life dances before me like sugar plum fairies as tears sparkle down my cheek as Clarence gets his wings. The flight of good prevails and the Sam the unsung hobbit hero becomes everyman's pit against evil. I relish in the warm security of my life as we sit transfixed in wonder and examine the warm places of our hearts and all is good with the world for this moment in time. Christmas Eve.
I am surrounded by the sparkle of magic that is the world I have created for myself. The tartness of a warmed coffee cranberry cake dipped in cream. The dancing eyes as you rip through boxes of wrapping treats. The stockings bulge with thoughtful thoughts and the crisp warm taste of quiche. I watch as paper flies and eyes light and I lean back in the warmth of my twisted little family. The warmth of everything and everyone and I am satisfied in my satisfaction. Today is good and I want nothing more in this moment than what I have.
The turkey is brined and cooked to brown crisp. The stuffing is steamed and little hands push them up the turkey's butt. The table is set in elegant colour gleaming in candlelit glow. The treasures are unstacked and unwrapped. Wine pours as food is consumed. My sister hovers above in spirit and care smiling through tears of a family minus one. She would have been proud of us with our care for each other, she would have smiled and laughed and stuck out her tongue in joyful play. The heart has capacity for happy and sad all at once. Dinner.
Blue bags of recycling are set by the curb with care. The house is cleaned and gleams with the newness of additional additives and we are tired in all the excitement. Lumpy lumps stuffed with blueberry waffles and a dollop of cream. Lumpy lumps stuffed with the coloured exuberance of the floating images of the screen. Lumpy lumps rolling the dice of a friendly game or two. Lumpy lumps are not leaving this space until another moon has passed over the darkened sky. Lumpy lumps are loving the time spent doing absolutely nothing more than the flick of a wrist.
Around and around the parking lot we go until the weasel gets a spot. Sale sale sale barks the signs. All this could be yours for 25% less than what its worth and 99.9% more than what the sweat-shop worker was paid to painstakingly create it. A futuristic voice a la Total Recall announces advertising over the intercom "Shopping is good" "Buy stuff and you will be happy". The water flows in the pool, the fake ice chinks in your skate, the mini golf bounces, the underwater adventure kills another dolphin. West Edmonton Mall for all your shopping desire needs.
She steps gingerly off the curb still reeling from the shock of early morning's crisp cold. Weary eyes bleed across the fluorescent hued building and she longs for the bitter taste of coffee beneath her tongue. A quick review of financial disaster as the season's spending becomes reality and she realizes that all is fine and finds that interestingly disconcerting. The week stretches out in formlessness as the holiday draws a quick breathe of death. What new next to look forward to as she remembers a distant beat in her heart of corporate awareness call to the wild transient mobility.
In silent wonder I sit in solitude and pluck the petals from my keys. Dancing demons demented and droll laugh in latitude's light. Crazy crinkles of cracked corn poke pills into my pickled and puckered cheeks as my tongue tastes a metallic canker. Rambling words float across my eyes and frantic thoughts pile dazed across my darkened sight. A circle becomes a square lost in a line. Floundering flakes of nuggets enter and exit zipping through traffic lost in headlights of last year's dreams and I sit in silent wonder with my solitude and pluck the petals from my keys.
Off work early, a shower and encasement of purple velvet and painted face to match the painted nails. A laugh and flash of bulb with friends accompanied by rich red wine and tall black leather spikes. Tonight I will laugh and talk and dance with friends and with the music of my baby floating into ears of humming breathlessness. A drunken array of cigarette butted wobble and a cold ride home to start the new year with expectation of change. With each year brings new adventures ready to fling across my soul and bounce around my head. Bring it on.
The Tip Jar