Searching for love
Karen mutters absent-mindedly to herself as she tosses the loose cushions off the sofa. She pokes her fingers into the tight recesses around the seat but comes up with nothing more than a couple of rubber bands and some sultanas. She has already turned their bed upside-down. There is no other furniture in their one-room apartment. They only moved in last week. Karen has searched every nook and cranny.
She reaches for her mobile on the kitchen bench. It’s time to face the music.
She hesitates. It’s impossible for her to confess the enormity of the situation to Martin.
She becomes aware of the tension in her body. Her back is aching. The pain in her head is making her nauseous. There is a sharp, nagging knot between her shoulder blades. She draws the curtains to shut out the bright sunlight and stretches out on the sofa.
Karen closes her eyes. Once again she finds herself going over her movements since breakfast. Showered, got dressed, left for the factory, endured her shift, came home. It was only when she started making dinner that she realized the locket was missing. The chain must have broken.
She knows that she wore it to work. She wears it every day. It was a special present from Martin when they had married. The locket had been his mother’s and held a tiny photo of him as a baby and a lock of his baby hair. He will be distraught that it’s gone.
The scrape of the key in the lock startles Karen. She scrambles off the sofa and stands forlornly waiting for Martin to enter the room.
He comes in beaming. His good humour strikes a discordant note in the misery of the room. Karen can’t bear it. She flings her arms around him and bursts into tears.
“I’ve lost your locket,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’ve looked everywhere. I don’t know what to do.”
She sinks dejectedly onto the sofa.
Martin sits on the floor in front of her.
“Hey, come on, sweetheart. What are you so upset about? It’s only a bit of jewellery!”
His words hang accusingly in the silence.
How could he have called the locket ‘only a bit of jewellery’? It had been his Mum’s. It was really special. The realisation that it might be gone is beginning to sink in. He remembers how his Mum wore it every day until she died. When he was little he would ask to have a look inside and loved seeing his grinning baby face wedged into the tiny heart shape. There was something innocent and unspoilt about that slip of blond hair in there with the photo.
Karen has seen the transformation on Martin’s face, the light in his eyes has dimmed. She realises how self-centred her fear and guilt about losing the locket have been. She slips down onto the floor beside him.
“Martin, I know how much the locket meant to you. It was much more than a bit of jewellery.”
He looks up. His face lights up and he grins as he sees himself reflected in her eyes.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Saturday, 24 January 2009
A Stirring Moment - Rick
Jason sat at his desk looking at the 17 memos in his in basket for the 17th time. The pile wasn’t getting any shorter. He tried to think of a time when he had been truly happy and kept coming up blank. He had been working for the Department of Weights and Measures in Canberra for over 23 years and he couldn’t recall a single day when he could honestly say he got pleasure from his job. He applied for the job because he was desperate at the time and it was only going to be until he could pay off his bills and get a little breathing space. Then he would go and work with Greenpeace and do what inspired him. But after the bills got paid he got this promotion which meant a bit more money and he bought a new car so hung on for another 6 months. And then he was put on this 18 month project that meant a bit more money and the 18 months became 4 years before the project was scrapped. And somehow another promotion came along and a bit more money and of course in there he got married and then 3 kids in 5 years and he couldn’t selfishly pursue his ideals and shirk his responsibilities. And here he sat, bored with life, bone weary at the age of 42 and just feeling trapped and unhappy.
He couldn’t honestly say that he was depressed any more. He had been about 7 years ago but he got through that. No, this was more like a chronic sense of sadness. Life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
But today something else competed with the sadness for his attention. He was fidgety, jittery and his stomach kept churning like it did when he was 16 and wanted to ask Becky to the school dance. “No, it can’t be that”, he said to himself. He opened up his top drawer and took out the card that was there. And he read it for the 20th time.
Landmark Education
No way. In a moment of weakness, he had said yes to Bernie in the cubicle and had gone out to this guest event for something called the Landmark Forum. God, all these people going on about this course they did and how it changed their lives and what a good thing it was and would Jason like to do it? It reminded him so much of the time those Mormons came around and he foolishly started talking to them about Jesus. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the night out of his mind. And it was that one guy in particular who spoke about having just started a new job after being stuck in the same old rut for years. The guy beamed and seemed so authentically happy and kept raving about how all these possibilities opened up for him during the Forum. He didn’t seem weird or brainwashed. Just happy.
“This never gets any easier, does it?” he muttered to himself. And as he picked up his phone and dialed 9692-9011 he felt something way down in the pit of his belly stir.
He couldn’t honestly say that he was depressed any more. He had been about 7 years ago but he got through that. No, this was more like a chronic sense of sadness. Life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
But today something else competed with the sadness for his attention. He was fidgety, jittery and his stomach kept churning like it did when he was 16 and wanted to ask Becky to the school dance. “No, it can’t be that”, he said to himself. He opened up his top drawer and took out the card that was there. And he read it for the 20th time.
Landmark Education
No way. In a moment of weakness, he had said yes to Bernie in the cubicle and had gone out to this guest event for something called the Landmark Forum. God, all these people going on about this course they did and how it changed their lives and what a good thing it was and would Jason like to do it? It reminded him so much of the time those Mormons came around and he foolishly started talking to them about Jesus. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the night out of his mind. And it was that one guy in particular who spoke about having just started a new job after being stuck in the same old rut for years. The guy beamed and seemed so authentically happy and kept raving about how all these possibilities opened up for him during the Forum. He didn’t seem weird or brainwashed. Just happy.
“This never gets any easier, does it?” he muttered to himself. And as he picked up his phone and dialed 9692-9011 he felt something way down in the pit of his belly stir.
Stirred, not shaken (Heather)
It was Herman Melville that first said, “We become sad in the first place because we have nothing stirring to do.” Write about what stirs you.
Steve took another sip of coffee and pondered the lay of the cards. It was his fifth game of solitaire (he liked the feel of the cards so he played it the old-fashioned way) and truth be told he was getting more than a little bored.
The quote he’d read at lunchtime darted through his head again. He’d been working his way through The Writings of Herman Melville (like himself, no stranger to sorrow and hard times) when he’d come across the words that had stopped him: “There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because we have found a snug sofa at last.”
He’d immediately slammed shut the book and grabbed the cards for another hand of Solitaire.
And now, there he was, face to face with those words again.
Steve could tell you how you become sad: you lose someone you love and have loved for 35 years and who feels like part of your skin. “Having nothing stirring to do”? – give us a break; when the fabric of your life has been ripped apart you don’t need stirring.
Nonetheless, the insult of the quote continued to nibble at him. “Slipperily alluring”? “SNUG SOFA”!!??
Agitated, he dropped the deck of cards. All right, he thought, let’s give the idea a fair play. What stirs you, you old bugger? What stirs you?
From the jar of pens nearby he grabbed a black felt marker. He poked at the playing cards spilled in front of him. He flipped over a card (two of hearts, lots of white space), and wrote: “Skin against skin”. That’s something that stirred him, and something he missed fiercely.
With a certain satisfaction, he laid the defaced card, words up, neatly on the table in front of him.
He grabbed up the rest of the pack, flipped over another card (nine of spades) and wrote between the black spots: “Travelling to extraordinary places.” He hadn’t travelled since Addie died and in a flash he recognised that he missed it. Travel stirred him and always had.
The words “Rhythm and flow” landed on the ace of clubs. It felt good, somehow. He chuckled, and “Good humour” followed fast on its heels.
“Learning from the bush”.
“The love of children”.
As fast as Steve could write, cards flew, and a pattern – a life, really – began to emerge on the table in front of him.
Finally, from somewhere came: “Taking on the hero’s journey” – right there on the back of the eight of hearts. A frisson travelled up his spine. He was no hero, never had been, but life itself took heroism and he knew himself to be someone with courage and a sense of adventure.
He swung out of his chair. He strode to the window and dug his hands deep into his pockets. He noticed the car was in the driveway at Bruce and Kelly’s. Somebody was home over there and where there was life there was a teapot. Resolutely he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.
Steve took another sip of coffee and pondered the lay of the cards. It was his fifth game of solitaire (he liked the feel of the cards so he played it the old-fashioned way) and truth be told he was getting more than a little bored.
The quote he’d read at lunchtime darted through his head again. He’d been working his way through The Writings of Herman Melville (like himself, no stranger to sorrow and hard times) when he’d come across the words that had stopped him: “There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because we have found a snug sofa at last.”
He’d immediately slammed shut the book and grabbed the cards for another hand of Solitaire.
And now, there he was, face to face with those words again.
Steve could tell you how you become sad: you lose someone you love and have loved for 35 years and who feels like part of your skin. “Having nothing stirring to do”? – give us a break; when the fabric of your life has been ripped apart you don’t need stirring.
Nonetheless, the insult of the quote continued to nibble at him. “Slipperily alluring”? “SNUG SOFA”!!??
Agitated, he dropped the deck of cards. All right, he thought, let’s give the idea a fair play. What stirs you, you old bugger? What stirs you?
From the jar of pens nearby he grabbed a black felt marker. He poked at the playing cards spilled in front of him. He flipped over a card (two of hearts, lots of white space), and wrote: “Skin against skin”. That’s something that stirred him, and something he missed fiercely.
With a certain satisfaction, he laid the defaced card, words up, neatly on the table in front of him.
He grabbed up the rest of the pack, flipped over another card (nine of spades) and wrote between the black spots: “Travelling to extraordinary places.” He hadn’t travelled since Addie died and in a flash he recognised that he missed it. Travel stirred him and always had.
The words “Rhythm and flow” landed on the ace of clubs. It felt good, somehow. He chuckled, and “Good humour” followed fast on its heels.
“Learning from the bush”.
“The love of children”.
As fast as Steve could write, cards flew, and a pattern – a life, really – began to emerge on the table in front of him.
Finally, from somewhere came: “Taking on the hero’s journey” – right there on the back of the eight of hearts. A frisson travelled up his spine. He was no hero, never had been, but life itself took heroism and he knew himself to be someone with courage and a sense of adventure.
He swung out of his chair. He strode to the window and dug his hands deep into his pockets. He noticed the car was in the driveway at Bruce and Kelly’s. Somebody was home over there and where there was life there was a teapot. Resolutely he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.
Injustice (Kerry)
Dale is annoyed by the small crowd of on-lookers that has been attracted by the police activity on the footpath of the main street. He squirms morosely in the back seat of the police car, waiting for his brother to be shoved in beside him.
“Whadda you fuckin’ lookin’ at?” he shouts at me, the white woman with the pram and the alarmed expression. “You think you’re so good?”
I turn away, pretending to ignore his jibes, and begin to wheel the pram off down the street. But Dale’s situation is gnawing at me. Dale and I live in the same town; my boy goes to the same high school as Dale. I know that he comes from the aboriginal settlement on the outskirts of town. I’ve seen the houses out there; overcrowded, smashed windows, no gardens and rubbish strewn everywhere.
It’s only a month since I was in hospital with the new baby and shared a room with Dale’s aunt. In the few days we were together I learned a lot about the Kennedy family and their difficult circumstances. It was a heart-breaking story of discrimination, petty crime, violence, boredom and lack of opportunities. I am sick of standing by and ignoring the injustice of their circumstances.
I phone the police station.
§
Dale is fed up. It only takes a bit of a fight and the police lock him up. He’s been inside now for a week but today he gets to go home.
He’s bored. At school the teachers have given up on him. He’s given up on himself. When he was little he used to have big dreams but reality has worn him down. What’s the point of dreaming? He’s black. He lives in a country town in the middle of nowhere. His dad has gone off somewhere and his mum has to look after him and his six brothers and sisters in a dump.
“What now?” he asks himself as he walks out into the foyer of the police station.
Dale looks up and sees a freshly printed notice on the noticeboard. It’s an invitation for kids, especially aboriginal kids, to sign up for an AFL team that the police are sponsoring.
Dale is excited. It’s an opportunity that’s too good for him to turn down. He loves kicking the footy with his mates but there’s never been a real team to join. He hurries out to tell his brother on the street. Together they return to the foyer and sign up.
§
The feeling of elation and pride has engulfed me all day. Today is the first match for the Dubbo Daredevils. My boy is playing. Not only that. Over the last couple of months at training, he has formed a steadfast friendship with Dale Kennedy and his brother. I can’t wait to go down to the footy grounds. I’ll be there with the Kennedys to cheer them all on. I’ve watched them training and I know they’ll do me proud. I am stirred by having made a difference to the lives of others.
Kerry
25/1/09
“Whadda you fuckin’ lookin’ at?” he shouts at me, the white woman with the pram and the alarmed expression. “You think you’re so good?”
I turn away, pretending to ignore his jibes, and begin to wheel the pram off down the street. But Dale’s situation is gnawing at me. Dale and I live in the same town; my boy goes to the same high school as Dale. I know that he comes from the aboriginal settlement on the outskirts of town. I’ve seen the houses out there; overcrowded, smashed windows, no gardens and rubbish strewn everywhere.
It’s only a month since I was in hospital with the new baby and shared a room with Dale’s aunt. In the few days we were together I learned a lot about the Kennedy family and their difficult circumstances. It was a heart-breaking story of discrimination, petty crime, violence, boredom and lack of opportunities. I am sick of standing by and ignoring the injustice of their circumstances.
I phone the police station.
§
Dale is fed up. It only takes a bit of a fight and the police lock him up. He’s been inside now for a week but today he gets to go home.
He’s bored. At school the teachers have given up on him. He’s given up on himself. When he was little he used to have big dreams but reality has worn him down. What’s the point of dreaming? He’s black. He lives in a country town in the middle of nowhere. His dad has gone off somewhere and his mum has to look after him and his six brothers and sisters in a dump.
“What now?” he asks himself as he walks out into the foyer of the police station.
Dale looks up and sees a freshly printed notice on the noticeboard. It’s an invitation for kids, especially aboriginal kids, to sign up for an AFL team that the police are sponsoring.
Dale is excited. It’s an opportunity that’s too good for him to turn down. He loves kicking the footy with his mates but there’s never been a real team to join. He hurries out to tell his brother on the street. Together they return to the foyer and sign up.
§
The feeling of elation and pride has engulfed me all day. Today is the first match for the Dubbo Daredevils. My boy is playing. Not only that. Over the last couple of months at training, he has formed a steadfast friendship with Dale Kennedy and his brother. I can’t wait to go down to the footy grounds. I’ll be there with the Kennedys to cheer them all on. I’ve watched them training and I know they’ll do me proud. I am stirred by having made a difference to the lives of others.
Kerry
25/1/09
Being Connected - Sue
The smell of roasting coffee beans hovers in the hot wind and sucks me into the café. I sigh. I just love coffee, a creamy soft and thick piccolo latte with a delicate leaf engraved in the cream. I take tiny mouthfuls to make it last and swill it around my tongue, tasting every tiny grain.
Its not just about the coffee, this foray into the latte scene is also about being in the midst of a noisy, happy bunch of people. It’s infectious. The exciting chatter as people share stories, the ‘clink’ of the glasses, although it’s still only early, and the gaggle of waiters who bounce from table to table. It doesn’t take long and I’m chatting to the girl next to me. Her eyes light up as she shares about “the Big Day Out” and her sailing escapades across the harbour. She’s from Ireland. We share how our accents have changed, we share about our families back home, we share about the dull grey skies, the rain and the cold at Christmas. We laugh. We are connected for a few special hours.
A flowerhead shimmers in the glare of the sun. The petals are soft like baby’s hair and are delicately painted white with a bight pink edge. Sometimes the pink smears a bit like a smudge, a fairy kiss. Many petals form a flower, tied together by the tiniest of dark red spindly stamens to attract the bees. As I capture the minute detail of the flower, I’m connected in such a way that nothing else is present.
The desert is the same, made up of millions and millions of tiny grains of orange sand. The sea is the same, each drop of water colliding to create oceans and waves. Just stopping for a moment to get present is really what stirs me.
Now back to my people world. Those glorious fun loving friends, where I share my triumphs but also my woes. Where everything is safe, where no one intrudes, where our eyes sparkle and reflect in each others faces, where crinkles escape from our eyes as we laugh. I love the pain of that ferocious lion like laugh which tumbles and turns. Just looking at each other and we explode. It’s rare this uncontrollable fit of the giggles but oh how special to be connected so freely that its allowed to escape.
The man in my life is a dream. We click, we’re as one. Like two peas in a pod, we’ve been told. We share, we get sad. We get angry, we make up. We hold hands wherever we go. Out fingers entwine and belong. There’s a certain glance, a definite shift of his eyes, a wicked sort of a grin and my tummy somersaults and spins on itself. I giggle to myself as I try to find exactly the right words. We are surely connected, we are surely in love. That cheeky look does it every time.
Now I’m present to coffee time, who knows, I might make another new friend.
Its not just about the coffee, this foray into the latte scene is also about being in the midst of a noisy, happy bunch of people. It’s infectious. The exciting chatter as people share stories, the ‘clink’ of the glasses, although it’s still only early, and the gaggle of waiters who bounce from table to table. It doesn’t take long and I’m chatting to the girl next to me. Her eyes light up as she shares about “the Big Day Out” and her sailing escapades across the harbour. She’s from Ireland. We share how our accents have changed, we share about our families back home, we share about the dull grey skies, the rain and the cold at Christmas. We laugh. We are connected for a few special hours.
A flowerhead shimmers in the glare of the sun. The petals are soft like baby’s hair and are delicately painted white with a bight pink edge. Sometimes the pink smears a bit like a smudge, a fairy kiss. Many petals form a flower, tied together by the tiniest of dark red spindly stamens to attract the bees. As I capture the minute detail of the flower, I’m connected in such a way that nothing else is present.
The desert is the same, made up of millions and millions of tiny grains of orange sand. The sea is the same, each drop of water colliding to create oceans and waves. Just stopping for a moment to get present is really what stirs me.
Now back to my people world. Those glorious fun loving friends, where I share my triumphs but also my woes. Where everything is safe, where no one intrudes, where our eyes sparkle and reflect in each others faces, where crinkles escape from our eyes as we laugh. I love the pain of that ferocious lion like laugh which tumbles and turns. Just looking at each other and we explode. It’s rare this uncontrollable fit of the giggles but oh how special to be connected so freely that its allowed to escape.
The man in my life is a dream. We click, we’re as one. Like two peas in a pod, we’ve been told. We share, we get sad. We get angry, we make up. We hold hands wherever we go. Out fingers entwine and belong. There’s a certain glance, a definite shift of his eyes, a wicked sort of a grin and my tummy somersaults and spins on itself. I giggle to myself as I try to find exactly the right words. We are surely connected, we are surely in love. That cheeky look does it every time.
Now I’m present to coffee time, who knows, I might make another new friend.
Friday, 23 January 2009
Stirred (Jenny)
My words hang in the air, reverberating silently, reaching into the very fabric of the Universe. He looks at me, and in the charged silence, a life shifts awkwardly, trapped in a space which no longer fits like a glove.
Fear and wonder surge behind those green eyes, and in my gut an answering surge lets me know that something indescribable is happening. I settle into the feeling. This is my favourite place, the pivot point between survival and something much, much more.
The silence extends, not uncomfortable, but profoundly engaging. I listen intently, watching his manicured hand as it strokes his fashionably-stubbled chin.
Finally, he speaks.
“I never thought of it like that,” he says. “I fought so hard to get to where I am – I always thought it was a good thing to be able to buy the most expensive thing on the menu.”
His eyes are bright, looking through me, looking at his life from a different angle. He picks up his cognac and studies the dark golden spirit.
“But it's true, you know – it has been a compulsion. Not only could I buy the most expensive thing on the menu, I actually had to. I was proving to myself that I could.”
“Over and over,” I agree gently, leaning harder on the pivot point.
“Over and over,” he nods, and visions of countless restaurants, bars and casinos dance in the precious space we share.
“Think how much money I can save,” he muses.
“It's not about the money,” I prompt. He has more than enough cash to buy anything his heart desires. “Think about having the freedom to choose what you really want.”
His eyes unfocus, and a broad smile appears. For a moment, the boy inside is visible.
“You mean I might actually order a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“If that's what you really want.”
He laughs out loud, incredulous yet believing.
“You know, after this conversation, I think I actually could.”
He shakes his head, reaches out and takes my hand. His green eyes meet mine, suddenly serious and deep. Secret bells ring silent in the sacred space between us.
“You say the most amazing things, you know. Of all the people I know, you are the most stimulating to talk to. I always go away a changed man.”
He turns to face me more directly. “A better man,” he emphasises.
“Thank you for the privilege,” I reply gently.
His eyes unfocus, and he laughs again.
“A grilled cheese sandwich. Unthinkable! I have to order one.”
“Have to?”
“Just to prove to myself that I can.”
“Oh, really?”
He drops my hands and sits up straight.
“Dammit, woman, I want a grilled cheese sandwich and I am going to order one!”
“Because that's what you really want?”
“Yes!”
The thought settles in, and the sacred space shifts again.
“I'm going to have what I really want ...”
His voice fades and falters slightly. He looks down, but I have already seen – and felt – the tears in those magnificent green eyes.
I sit in the space, holding it safe. Holding him safe, while he rebuilds himself from within.
This is what I do. I change lives.
I hold the sacred space, for a minute, for this moment, for eternity.
Fear and wonder surge behind those green eyes, and in my gut an answering surge lets me know that something indescribable is happening. I settle into the feeling. This is my favourite place, the pivot point between survival and something much, much more.
The silence extends, not uncomfortable, but profoundly engaging. I listen intently, watching his manicured hand as it strokes his fashionably-stubbled chin.
Finally, he speaks.
“I never thought of it like that,” he says. “I fought so hard to get to where I am – I always thought it was a good thing to be able to buy the most expensive thing on the menu.”
His eyes are bright, looking through me, looking at his life from a different angle. He picks up his cognac and studies the dark golden spirit.
“But it's true, you know – it has been a compulsion. Not only could I buy the most expensive thing on the menu, I actually had to. I was proving to myself that I could.”
“Over and over,” I agree gently, leaning harder on the pivot point.
“Over and over,” he nods, and visions of countless restaurants, bars and casinos dance in the precious space we share.
“Think how much money I can save,” he muses.
“It's not about the money,” I prompt. He has more than enough cash to buy anything his heart desires. “Think about having the freedom to choose what you really want.”
His eyes unfocus, and a broad smile appears. For a moment, the boy inside is visible.
“You mean I might actually order a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“If that's what you really want.”
He laughs out loud, incredulous yet believing.
“You know, after this conversation, I think I actually could.”
He shakes his head, reaches out and takes my hand. His green eyes meet mine, suddenly serious and deep. Secret bells ring silent in the sacred space between us.
“You say the most amazing things, you know. Of all the people I know, you are the most stimulating to talk to. I always go away a changed man.”
He turns to face me more directly. “A better man,” he emphasises.
“Thank you for the privilege,” I reply gently.
His eyes unfocus, and he laughs again.
“A grilled cheese sandwich. Unthinkable! I have to order one.”
“Have to?”
“Just to prove to myself that I can.”
“Oh, really?”
He drops my hands and sits up straight.
“Dammit, woman, I want a grilled cheese sandwich and I am going to order one!”
“Because that's what you really want?”
“Yes!”
The thought settles in, and the sacred space shifts again.
“I'm going to have what I really want ...”
His voice fades and falters slightly. He looks down, but I have already seen – and felt – the tears in those magnificent green eyes.
I sit in the space, holding it safe. Holding him safe, while he rebuilds himself from within.
This is what I do. I change lives.
I hold the sacred space, for a minute, for this moment, for eternity.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Sue - Yesterday or tomorrow
There’s not a cloud in the brilliant blue sky and the Harbour Bridge is stark, bold and black against the clear background. The blue is reflected in the sea, calm and smooth with just the wash of the ferries to break up the colour. Joanne drives across the Bridge, the windows are all down, and the warm breeze blows wisps of hair across her brown face. The music is loud and her long tanned fingers tap out the tune on the steering wheel. She’s been asked to choose between yesterday and tomorrow.
“What a weird theme for a story” she muses. And she turns the music up even louder and throws her shaggy blond mane back into the wind.
“Yesterday. I remember the weather was beautiful, it was hot, maybe a bit sticky but down at the beach it was perfect. I sat on the soft sand, nestling my bum into the dip and ran my fingers through the tiny soft grains. The sea gently rolled in. It was hypnotic really. The water rolled to the shore then returned to the sea to just repeat the pattern again.
Will it do that tomorrow?
Back on the beach, I waded aimlessly but also intentionally through the waves to the cafe. I’m a latte a day girl. That’s me.
Will there be coffee tomorrow?
After the beach I went back to my flat. My beautiful new apartment, slick and contemporary, minimalistic and easy to live in. But comfy with a little balcony and views to the sea. There I sat and just took in the view. I remember my book just slid off my lap and folded in a bit of a heap on the ground.
What will happen to my flat tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I”ll just make it up. Who’s to know what I say to the wind. She changes the CD to a loud thumping rock and her fingers jive around the gear stick and dance back and forwards to the steering wheel.”
“It’s going to piss with down with rain. It will deluge to such an extent that I won’t be able to get to the beach for weeks. I won’t be able to check on the waves as they pound and gallop furiously up the beach. The coffee shop will get washed away together with the coffee plantations. The cows will go on strike as they only give milk in the sun.
God what a life!
Six friends will knock on the door of the flat. All wanting to stay. They’ll blow up their airbeds and throws their sleeping bags onto the floor. Clothes will be everywhere.”
The music has stopped. Joanne’s breathing has stopped. Waves of panic rise like bile in her mouth. She chokes and splutters. Cars are speeding past her.
She’s sitting in the middle lane of the Bridge and the petrol gauge is furiously flashing.
“Who gives a shit. Yesterday or tomorrow will do. Anything but now”
“What a weird theme for a story” she muses. And she turns the music up even louder and throws her shaggy blond mane back into the wind.
“Yesterday. I remember the weather was beautiful, it was hot, maybe a bit sticky but down at the beach it was perfect. I sat on the soft sand, nestling my bum into the dip and ran my fingers through the tiny soft grains. The sea gently rolled in. It was hypnotic really. The water rolled to the shore then returned to the sea to just repeat the pattern again.
Will it do that tomorrow?
Back on the beach, I waded aimlessly but also intentionally through the waves to the cafe. I’m a latte a day girl. That’s me.
Will there be coffee tomorrow?
After the beach I went back to my flat. My beautiful new apartment, slick and contemporary, minimalistic and easy to live in. But comfy with a little balcony and views to the sea. There I sat and just took in the view. I remember my book just slid off my lap and folded in a bit of a heap on the ground.
What will happen to my flat tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I”ll just make it up. Who’s to know what I say to the wind. She changes the CD to a loud thumping rock and her fingers jive around the gear stick and dance back and forwards to the steering wheel.”
“It’s going to piss with down with rain. It will deluge to such an extent that I won’t be able to get to the beach for weeks. I won’t be able to check on the waves as they pound and gallop furiously up the beach. The coffee shop will get washed away together with the coffee plantations. The cows will go on strike as they only give milk in the sun.
God what a life!
Six friends will knock on the door of the flat. All wanting to stay. They’ll blow up their airbeds and throws their sleeping bags onto the floor. Clothes will be everywhere.”
The music has stopped. Joanne’s breathing has stopped. Waves of panic rise like bile in her mouth. She chokes and splutters. Cars are speeding past her.
She’s sitting in the middle lane of the Bridge and the petrol gauge is furiously flashing.
“Who gives a shit. Yesterday or tomorrow will do. Anything but now”
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